I have always thought my mother’s hands were beautiful.  And they are.  Is it possible that they could be even more beautiful now, at age 94?  To me, they are exquisite.  But that is not nearly the most important thing.  They are the hands that have shown her deep love for my brother and me.  They are the hands I can still hold and feel the currents of her tenderness flow onto mine.

Her hands have kept me safe and secure since I was born.  Memories of her catching me before I fell, holding me in a deep hug, touching my face and drying my tears will never leave me.  I remember her holding my hand as we walked together, even as I grew older, because I wanted her close to me.

Her hands bathed me as a baby, cooked for me, fed me and tucked me into bed.  She showed me how to pray with her hands on mine.  She still rubs my back when I am sad and she listens without saying a word.  Instead, she gives comfort with her hands.  She is a gift from God.

Today, as I touch her hands, so soft and smooth, and full of tenderness, I am so grateful.  They comfort me still.  I want to keep them forever warm in my heart, where they will be felt with each memory I have of her when she is no longer here to physically warm mine.  We hold hands regularly as we sit together and talk these days.  These days are so special as I am with her as she was with me as I was growing up.  Now we are growing old together hand in hand in this journey we call life.  If she gets to heaven before I do, I know she will be waiting to reach out and touch me again with her beautiful, loving hands.