Mom's Hands

Today is Mother's Day. But it has been 8 years now that I have put flowers on my mothers' grave instead of giving them to her for the kitchen table.
She died just a few months before her 65th birthday. A three year battle with breast cancer finally ended.
My mom was a strong, hard-working farm-wife; having raised 7 children, buried two and a granddaughter.
Her steadfast faith in God was her Refuge. Her stronghold. Her life was not an easy one...

I took this photo of her hands the day she needed to be readmitted into the hospital where she died a few days later.

I loved my moms hands. As a small child, I remember the tell-tale scent of Noxema on her hands told me that she would be going out for the night. I remember watching those hands do so many things of creative wonder and practical ingenuity.

I remember her planting her hundreds of seedlings in the huge garden we had, sewing patches on the never-ending stack of barn-clothes the boys generated, plucking feathers off of recently beheaded chickens, putting curlers in her hair Saturday night, patiently but efficiently brushing tats out of my crazy-curly hair and putting my two ringlet pigtails in every morning before school, cutting piles of donated clothes into quilt squares to make quilts for refugees through the relief organization at our church.



The list goes on and on.... but in particular, I cherish the memories of the little snatches of time after supper. My older siblings sitting around the table, the men discussing farm business and I would put my head onto my mother's lap and with my hand would trace the veins and contours of her work-worn, loving hands. These same hands that folded in prayer every day and faithfully journalled every prayer and request for her family. Prayers that now ring in eternity.

Many aspects of my mother will always be a mystery to me.

She died just as I was adult enough to get to know her; really know her.
I can only draw conclusions based on what I know from others and my own lessons learned of why she made certain choices. How she felt about them and what she learned.

But, I can still work towards emulating the things about her that spoke love to me. Much of this was through the touch and ministry of her hands.

Even if she had never been able to speak a word to me; I know her love and nurture because of what she did. Oh, that I may recognize that truth; not so much what I say but what I do and how I love others through what I do, will be remembered more.