My Mother's Hands

When I look at my hands now, I see my mother's hands - the color, the texture, the feel - and it is an unsettling feeling. My mother's hands never harmed me. They loved me, they patted me, held my hands. Yet, those hands did hold pain.

They were the hands that drank the alcohol, and smoked cigarettes by the carton. The hands that took the overdose. The hands that slashed her own wrists. She never hurt me with her hands, it was her mouth that cut me to shreds. Yet those hands, her hands, "The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish woman tears hers down.*" She tore her house down with those hands.

And the pain is there, and I look at my hands and they look like hers. She must have been about my age now, as she tore down her house...our house...with her hands. It hurts. The memory hurts, as I look at my hands, but see hers.

But I am not her. I am building my house up with my hands. I am loving my husband and my children with my hands. I am praying to God with my hands. I raise these hands in praise to him. They are my hands, not hers. They may look the same, but oh, they are different. 

I am sitting at breakfast, and my husband takes my hand. "You have beautiful hands," he says. A gift of grace, from God through my husband. I have beautiful hands. 

I am thankful to God for this gift of grace, and for always holding me...in His hands.

Kelly Combs is a Christian wife, mom, writer and speaker. You can learn about Kelly by visiting her website at www.kellycombs.com

*Proverbs 14:1