A mother's hand. It doesn't go unnoticed.
"Mommy," my then-elementary daughter said one day, her small hand resting in mine, "your hand feels like Mema's!"
At the time, her innocent comment felt like a slap in the face. My hand felt like my mother's? I shuddered at the thought of emerging veins and brown spots. Surely, I wasn't there yet!
But in retrospect, the thought of my hand being compared with my mother's is a gift that I should have cherished. For what can be more beautiful than a mother's encouraging hand as a little child stumbles on their first footstep. Or a mother's firm hand that guides a new bicycle while an unsteady young one pedals ahead.
Holding, helping, hemming in at times.
Through every moment on their walk together, a mother's hand is ready to prepare her child for the journey ahead.
Guiding, giving, gracefully leading.
No matter the sacrifice, the patience required, the hand of a mother reaches out in love.
From childhood and beyond, the memory of their hand — one that changed with the years — is indelibly imprinted in our memory.
On Mother’s Day and throughout the year, we honor our mothers for the life they gave without reservation, for the gentle hand that led us to who we are today.
I thank my mother for her hands clasped silently in prayer, the sound of her applause when silence might have filled the room, and for never letting go of hope in my future.
My mother is gone now, and I miss her gentle touch. But her loving hand will always hold my heart.