A Mother's Hands

I was noticing my hands the other day while I was driving. When my husband and I were engaged (and I had an office job) one of his friends told him that my hands looked like those of a hand model.

Not so now.

One day a sweet little daycare child told me that my hands are “skatchy.” They seem to have the potential of being lovely, but my life prevents it.

As I was thinking about this, I realized that my hands look like my mother’s. I remember looking at her hands when I was a child and noticing that they looked dry. I asked her why she did not paint her nails because they seemed like the kind of nails that begged to be pretty. Now I understand. My girls asked me to paint mine the other day. The next day they were ruined. It seems that nail paint has no resistance against dish washing.

From the time that I push “snooze” first thing in the morning until I play with my husband’s hair while I am winding down at night, my hands are constantly busy. 

Of course there is the work: washing dishes, sorting and folding laundry, scrubbing the “artwork” off of the walls, cleaning the bathrooms…

But there are other things, too. Things that are almost too small to notice: stroking a child’s cheek (or my husband's just after he shaves), rubbing my boy’s prickly hair after it has been “buzzed”, feeling for a fever, combing flaxen curls…

I take all of these little things for granted, yet I'd miss them terribly if I ever had to do without the use of my hands.

I hold my Tiny Boy’s hand because he has decided that he is big enough to walk everywhere now, although he has not learned the concept of danger.

Sometimes my hands hold the Bible and sometimes my hands hold the “belt” in the instruction and correction of my children.

I even use my hands to express my thoughts in the form of writing – or to help my tiny son express his thoughts in the form of sign language since he does not yet possess language skills.

I am a little bit of a “germophobe” – not bad enough to make anyone feel awkward around me, but enough to make me wash my hands many times a day causing them to crack and bleed in the winter.

No, there is nothing lovely about my hands anymore. They are just the ordinary, practical hands of a mother.

As I thought of the many things that a Mother does with her hands, I began to think about the hands of my Saviour, Jesus. With Easter fresh on my mind, the first thing that I thought of was the nail holes. Scripture tells us that God chose not to remove His scars – even though He could have done that just as easily as He raised Him from the dead! He used these scars to prove to His disciples that It was really Him! (Luke 24:38-40; John 20:19-20, 24-28)

With his hands he blessed children. (Matthew 19:13-15; Mark 10:13-16)

With His hands He healed sick people. (Mark 8:23-25; Luke 4:40; 13:11-13)

With his hands he performed miracles. (Mark 6:2)

With his hands he washed the disciples feet in order to give us an example of how to serve others. (John 13:3-5, 12-17)

Even though His hands are scarred with holes that I could put my fingers through, I think that the hands of my Lord are BEAUTIFUL! They represent all of the love that He had - and that He chose to spread out his arms on a cross and lavish that love on me! Not only do they remind me to love with that kind of abandon, but they also remind me what it means to serve fully and willingly just like He did.

Regardless of the chipped nails, rough skin and bloody cracks, I think that when I use my hands to serve others, my hands are beautiful to Him, too!

So are YOURS!