Do we ever stop to think of the infinite loving acts of kindness that our mothers have bestowed upon us? So much CAN be said but yet so much goes UNSAID. Pictured is Makinley at two weeks old, Me at 25, my mom Cyndi at 49, and my dad's mom Rachel at 82. So many stories are behind these faces and the hands that allow us to do God's work. Enjoy these two articles that touched my heart and inspired us to take a picture of four generations of hands.
Her Hands
© Maggie Pittman
Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.
Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn't always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.
Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harms way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.
Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.
Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn't always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.
Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harms way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.
Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.
Our Mama’s Hands
by Marcella L. True
I saw you looking at your hands with disgust
You hate them now and hide them you must
But mama, there’s no shame in hands so worn
Because all they’ve touched since you were born
You say you hate them ‘cause they’re so frail,
So veined and aged and red, not pale
You don’t remember how much they’ve done
To bring the 5 of us to who we’ve become
You don’t remember the love they’ve shown
The tireless tending to us we’ve known
To tying the shoes and showing us how
To guiding us through all we know now
You don’t remember they’ve nurtured us well
That they soothed us so tenderly when we fell
That they hugged and held us when we were hurt
That they scrubbed and cleaned us of the dirt
You don’t remember that they wiped our tears
That they gave us a refuge from our fears
That they washed and doctored our injured knees
And they offered a tissue when we sneezed
You have no reason to hate them now
Without those hands we would not know how
To use our own hands as you once did
To soothe and nurture and worries to rid
We can hopefully teach our young ones now
That our hands are special and that somehow
It all began with your loving hands
They are so special and that’s how it stands
Mama, don’t hate them, ‘cause they’re etched with love
And Daddy’s patiently waiting to hold them, up above
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