My Mom's Hands

This is one of those days I want to feel the soft touch of my mom’s hands. Since I can remember she lathered her hands with lotion. As a child, I believed there was nothing as tender as her hands, styling French braids in my hair, patting my leg after a recital or clasping my hand at the tenuous nervous times of my life.

My mom’s hands are still intimate reminders of her love for me. While I was growing up she reached out time after time, physically showing me she cared. Each time I gave birth to one of my girls, I looked forward to them curling their tiny hands around one of my fingers, securing their grasp. I awaited the connection we’d share in the way we held hands.

I think the reason I appreciate my mom’s hands so much is because they signify safety to me. I felt safe if she was holding me or squeezing my hands. She pumped confidence into me when she’d squeeze her hand over mine.

Rivers of veins tunnel in her hands and are even more pronounced now than they were when I was a child. The pads of her fingers, still delicate and gentle have communicated volumes of comfort in my life. I miss my mom. I miss her kind touch and how she’s reached out in such memorable ways. I only hope as I tie my girls’ shoes and fix ponytails in their hair and wipe food from their mouths that they experience such softness from my hands.

I thank God for how my mom held me in her hands. I thank God that He holds us all in His hands.