My mother's hands

I looked down this evening and saw my mother, clear as day

She was not beside me, understand.

But I saw her in me, and in the flesh.

I was staring at my own two hands.

When did I inherit what I so deeply remember?

Those lined hands that nurtured and taught,

That guided, disciplined and healed

The sight of them tore at my heart.

These hands of mine have become

The image of the love I have known.

But do they love as fully and well?

Will my child remember them so, when she is grown?

It is a bittersweet thing to see Mom in me

When she so long gone,

And sad to know my child will miss this surprise

When someday, she looks at her own palms.

No, she will hear me in an expression, or a tone,

Or a phrase that will conjure in a flash.

She will feel my arms when she holds her own,

Or sees a look in her eyes, that I had.

I remember my mother’s hands so well,

Her gentle caresses and stern grasp,

For all they created, for all their work,

Her welcoming reach when I crawled into her lap.

My child may not see min in her own,

But her surprise will be to fully understand,

I pray her knowing will be just as strong

She was completely, if imperfectly,

loved by her mother’s hands.

For my mother, Gladys Pennington, and for my daughter through adoption, Emilia Pennington.

My mother’s hands was written by Rev. Diane Pennington and originally published in one of the Retreat House Spirituality Center books House of Hope. You can purchase your copy here.

Diane is co-leader of our interfaith community Common Ground as well as a trained spiritual director, pastor and faith and grief facilitator. Learn more about her here.