When I think of my grandmother’s hands I can still feel the texture of wrinkles and see the maze of lines that held my attention in awe that a hand could look so different than my smooth hand of a babe. I remember noticing the web of lines start to appear on the hand of my mother and thinking how fortunate I was that mine didn’t look like that. With long graceful fingers I even considered a career in hand modeling.

I glanced down recently to see the marks of age on my own hands. As I think of all the tasks I use these mothering hands for each day I see the beauty in aging hands. I only wish I had asked more often to hear the tales my grandmother could have told about how she used those hands for toil, provision, discipline, and love for her family of 7 children. I know how important it felt to hold those frail hands when she was too frail to tell the tales. I think I’ll try more often to let my own busy hands rest long enough to hold the hand of my mother. When my kids grab at my hand for something I’ll pause and listen to the rhythm of life that leaves an imprint of its music stamped right their on our hands.

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