The mother's hand
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.