Wednesday, January 3, 2007
I Love You Mother, Your Son Bobby
Mom: some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn\\\'t move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands.
When I sat down beside her she didn\\\'t acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was OK.
Finally, not really wanting to distrub her but wanting to check on her at the same time,I asked her if she was OK.
She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. Yes son I\\\'m fine, thank you for asking, she said in a clear stong voice.
I didn\\\'t mean to disturb you, ma. but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK, I explained to her.
Have you ever looked at your hands, she asked? I mean really looked at your hands?
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down, No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making:
Mom smiled and related this story:
Stop and think for a moment son about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands. though wrinked, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all by life to reach out and grab and embrace life.
They braced and caught my fall when I crashed upon the floor.
They put food in by nouth and clothes on my back.
As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.
They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.
They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went to be with Jesus.
They have been dirty scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn sons. Joseph, Robert, Nicholas, Gerald.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was marred and loved someone special.
They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when i buried my spouse.
They have held my childern and grandchild, consoled neighbors, and shock in fists of anger when I didn\\\'t understand.
They have covered my face, combed by hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken dried and raw.
And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer.
These hands are the mark of where I\\\'ve been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home, And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Mothers hands and led her home that day at 1:30 AM.
When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stoke my face I think of ma ma, I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by th hands of God.
I too want to touch the face of God and feel hands upon my face.
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