Thursday, May 5, 2011

My Mom's Hands


Sometimes I look down at my hands and see my moms. Its strange and comforting. Her hands are so deeply familiar, her fingers, the shape of her nail beds, the simple gold hand-forged wedding band. I have watched them knead dough, cut out paper dolls, and turn the pages of Little Women as I lay in bed with her as a child. Hundreds of times I have watched them roll out her famous crust for the best apple pie in the world. I have watched them shuffle scrabble letters, take a whack with a wooden spoon, fold in prayer, and write sermons. I have seen them waving down the street in the ghetto of Milwaukee as she chased down the kids who stole my brothers bike out from under him. (They dropped it and ran by the way.) I have seen them make dinner for a house full of inner city teenagers and teach lonely international housewives how to make apple sauce. They are truly remarkable hands.

My mom and I don't look anything alike. In fact, we are nothing alike. She has dark straight hair and mine is blond and untamable. She's pragmatic and I'm romantic. She lives fully in the moment and I'm a bit of a dreamer. We can not recognize anything of ourselves in the other and have sufficiently wounded eachother in trying. But I have her hands, and I am thankful. Our hands move quickly and efficiently and I look down and I know who I am. And I am so thankful that we should walk this side of heaven together as mother and daughter, sisters, and friends, forming and sharpening each other into the likeness of our Creator. "And he saw that it was good."

I love my mom's hands.

3 comments:

  1. Beautiful Kate. A wonderful tribute to a wonderful woman. So glad to know you both.

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  2. Lovely for a pre-Mothers Day. So wise you are.

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  3. I must admit I got a little teary-eyed while reading this. It's so well written and expresses such deep love for my sister. Thanks for posting this. Too bad she isn't on FB!

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