Faith | A mother’s hand holds more than we ever imagine

A mother’s hand. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Mommy,” my then-elementary school daughter said one day, her small hand resting in mine. “Your hand feels like grandma’s!”

My hand felt like my mother’s?

At the time, my little girl’s innocent comment felt like a slap in the face to the “thirtysomething” me. I had shuddered at the prospect of emerging veins and and brown age spots dotting my hand.

Surely, on that day so long ago, I wasn’t there yet!

But in retrospect, the thought of my hand being compared with my mother’s was a sweet gift that I should have cherished. I see that clearly now as fewer years stretch ahead than behind me.

For what can be more beautiful than a mother’s encouraging hand that reaches to catch a little one stumbling on their first footstep. Or a mother’s firm hand that guides a shiny bicycle as an unsteady child pedals hesitantly ahead.

Holding, helping, hemming in, at times.

Through every moment on their walk through early years together, a mother’s hand is ready, preparing her child for the journey ahead.

Guiding, giving, graceful leading.

No matter the sacrifice or tireless patience, the hand of a mother reaches out with love. A lifetime of moments captured through the eyes of a daughter or son. From childhood and beyond, the memory of her hand — one that changed with the years — is indelibly imprinted in our memory.

We won’t forget her face, her encouragement, her never-ending faith.

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.

Sadly, my mother is gone and I miss her tender touch. But her loving hand will always hold my heart.