My Mother's Hands

She held out the hand knitted sleeveless sweater to me with downcast eyes..."It's just for wearing around the house, or if you just want to take it over to the Goodwill...I'll understand." The knit was uneven in places from the ripping out and redoing.
          "It's my eyes" she explained...
 
But all I could see was the love of every knitted stitch in her handiwork.

I held her hands in my own, her once slender fingers now swollen and bent at the joints. In my mind's eye I could see her holding the knitting needles, continuously weaving the yarn in and out for hours at a time, days upon days for the past several months until the sweater vest was complete.

"It's only the second garment I have ever knitted in my life...the first was years ago."

I continue to stare at my mother's hands, thinking how much I have taken them for granted over the years. The hand's that have caressed my cheek, or once slapped my face when I mouthed off to her as an ungrateful teenager. The hand's that helped me on with my coat, and then later lovingly pushed me out the door to take on the world.

The hand's that were always folded by her bedside in daily prayerful petition, kneading the dough for homemade bread, or pitting apricots for the jam she passes out to the family every summer.

 Those hands, pulling up weeds from my neglected yard, folding my laundry, scouring my sink, or opening up the Bible and with her fingers showing me in scripture what the Lord has to say about that...

Her hands have penned numerous cards and letters encouraging me, admonishing me, advising me...loving me. And those same hands have held my children's faces in their palms as she painstakingly has tried to instill Godly wisdom in their choices, and has clinched tight to their small hands as she has taken them for walks through the orchard pointing out the beauty and blessings that God has bestowed on them.

I learned more about Christianity from my mother than from all the theologians in England.
     ~John Wesley

"It's wonderful mom...thank you. It's so very cozy. It'll be great in the wintertime."

Her smile warms my heart, and as I look deep into her careworn eyes, I pray that I have many more years to hang out with my mom, each day becoming more precious than the next. 

And when I look down at my own hands as they grow wrinkled, and spotted with age...

                                   I hope I see my mother's hands.

Growing Old

She embraces with grace

Each wrinkle on her face,

For they represent a life well spent.

Tears and laughter have left their mark,

And the gravity of long living on her body park,

But of not a single moment would she repent.

Of growing even older she has no fear,

Celebrates with joy each brand new year,

More wisely than in youth is her mind now bent.

So rather than rue the passing of the years,

She welcomes them each with no apparent fears,

This precious life on earth to her lent.

~Karen Chaffee

Grandchildren are the crown of the aged, and the glory of children is their parents.
                                           ~Proverbs 17:6

Always Seeking Higher Ground,

Nora