A mother’s Calloused Hands

 

I noticed the other day in church that my hands have aged in the past few years. I have noticed that they are calloused, the lines are deeper, the scars are more noticeable and they ache from time to time. All I could do was smile.

 I smiled at the fact that I have calloused hands, my hands have been involved in so many great things. I see the calluses from washing them so many times after taking care of a sick child, bearing the cold winters buckling my kids into their car seats, securing wheelchairs into a bus so I can bring clients on outings and dry from working all day with paperwork to support my family. I see scars from playing with my brother and sister when I was younger, climbing trees and building with my dad in his shop. One of my fingers is bigger than the rest from jamming it so hard, and some don’t move as well as they used too from Colorguard in high school. The memories flood back as I look at each finger, each knuckle, each palm, and at each wrinkle.

 We think about where we have been and what we have done as a whole, but have you ever taken a moment to look down, look at your hands. Where have they been, what have they done. Some of us may not like the answer as it might be that we have hurt someone, we might have caused harm. But we also might see that we have used them to put a bandage on someone’s wounds and carried someone to safety. Then used those same hands to hug and console them in hard times. Our hands are one of the most powerful parts of our body.

 “The final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands” – Anne Frank