Her hands are made of the good God stuff, divine fairy dust. Sweet yet strong, she may be shorter but her reach is long. These hands pull us up and out. They are “how we got over.” Her hands are our bridge and our mother- cradle. Pushing us to go harder, faster, higher, her hands never lower— just like our expectations for her.
We expect her hands to be there. They are the chief representatives of her care. Her fingerprints are everywhere. Our mothers’ hands are all in and they have a hand in all that we are and ever will be. The reason for our success, her hands solve the mystery. She works in front of the camera and behind the scenes.
Though her hands are soft, they are not fragile or weak. She does not treat them delicately. They do not fold well or break easily. Her hands, though tired, will never stop working for us— because there is always something to tweak (also known as “a mother’s touch”).
Foundation and support beams, her hands provide the structure and support that we need. Giving affection and direction, they are not as firm as they seem. Her hands make dirt pies and give high fives. They clean snotty noses and bake bread— though not at the same time.
I will admit that her hands are subject to compromise. She says, “No” and then “Yes.” We are her weakness; this cannot be denied. Just smile and say, “Please, mommy.” Her hands wave off her own request that we wait. They suspend the fact that we have had enough. She says, “Go ahead, baby.” That trick works whether we are her little boy or a grown lady.
Her hands do the heavy lifting as she will move the world for us and if we are honest, she rules the world for us. The blood in her veins our legacy. Her fingers point us to our destiny. Her hands are full of power, grace, love and dignity.
I am willing to bet that they are “finger- licking good.” So, I lift my hands in praise of mothers, as I should.