It was mother’s hands that held you as a little baby. Her hands picked you up when you fell. Put the bandage on your skinned knee. Cleaned up your mess. Held your coat collar when you would rush into the traffic. And her hands tucked you in at night.
Mother’s hands were warm when you were cold and cool when laid on your fevered forehead. Her hands smoothed the hurt and wiped the tears away. Her hands pointed the way to go and waved as you left. And these were the hands that welcomed you back.
It was mother’s hands that so beautifully set the table, arranged the flowers and turned the house into a home.
These were the hands that could thread a needle, sew on a button and mend the trousers that were carelessly torn. Mother’s hands could amazingly find the lost sock and repair broken toys. These were the hands that could clean, dust and scrub. It was these hands that could make breakfast and a school lunch at the same time.
Mother’s hands are the servants of the heart stretched out in time of need and could hold you tightly when no one else cared about you.
Now these hands are wrinkled, spotted, gnarled and a bit shaky, but still devoutly folded in prayer for you.