The Mother's Hands

My mother was visiting, she asked me to go shopping with her because she needed a new dress. I don’t normally like to go shopping and I’m not a patient person, but we set off for the mall together. We visited nearly every store that carried ladies’ dresses, and my mother tried on dress after dress, rejecting them all. As the day wore on, I grew weary.

Finally, at our last stop, my mother tried on a lovely blue three-piece dress. The blouse had a bow at the neckline, and as I stood in the dressing room with her, I watched as she tried, with much difficulty, to tie the bow. Her hands were so badly crippled from arthritis that she couldn’t do it. Immediately, my impatience gave way to an overwhelming wave of compassion for her. I turned away to try and hide the tears that welled up involuntarily. Regaining my composure, I turned back to tie the bow for her.

Our shopping trip was over, but the event was etched indelibly in my memory. For the rest of the day, my mind kept returning to that moment in the dressing room and to the vision of my mother’s hands trying to tie that bow. Those loving hands that had fed me, bathed me, dressed me, caressed and comforted me, and, most of all, prayed for me, were now touching me in the most remarkable manner.

Later in the evening, I went to my mother’s room, took her hands in mine, kissed them and, much to her surprise, told her that to me they were the most beautiful hands in the world.

I can only pray that some day my hands, and my heart, will have earned such a beauty of their own.