These Hands

These are the hands of a baby, a little girl, a young woman with dreams, a wife, a nurse, a Mom, a widow, a Grandma, a woman who knows loss, a woman who knows hard times, a woman who knows struggles, a cancer survivor, a woman who was willing to sacrifice her career to be my Dads assistant in his clinic, a woman who prays faithfully for her children and grandchildren, and a woman who can drive me insane faster than anyone I know, is far, far from perfect, but has given the best of herself to anything she has ever done.

I took the picture below quite a while back, and have been working on this post for some time now. It’s been a tough one because it stirs many emotions in me.

These are the arthritic, pained and aged hands of my Mom.

A woman possessing good & bad qualities, strengths & weaknesses, everything that makes her who she is, and the Mom I love. We don’t get to choose our parents, and they really don’t get to choose us (our personality) either. We both get what we get.

I don’t remember ever thinking of my parents as anything but old. Isn’t it funny when you are young you are so myopic and you never see your parents as real people who have dreams, desires, hurts and trials. I don’t remember ever really noticing my Moms hands when she was younger. I just took for granted she would always be the same.

Seeing her hands knitting to pass the time, now that life has slowed down dramatically, much to her dismay, hits me right between the eyes with the frailty of life.

I can think back, and I remember seeing those hands, much younger in appearance, working hard to teach me so many valuable lessons, important lessons about being a productive, contributing citizen of society. She pushed me to better myself so that I could have an even better life than what she had as a child. She taught me how to run a home for a family and how to love and care for my children. I see the imperfections, but what I know, is that as much as I feel let down by her in some ways, if I start judging her parenting, I am forced to look at the plank in my own eye as a Mother who has also failed. I am also aware, that I too have failed her in many ways as her daughter, but while we both have let one another down from time to time, those hands have remained constant.

Being a parent myself I now know the let downs and disappointments go both ways. I’m no longer selfish and foolish enough to see things from one side, mine.

Her Hands © Maggie Pittman Published: February 2006

Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.

Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn't always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.

Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harm's way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.

Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.