May 7, 2015 By Jan Mayer
I smile when I think of my mother’s hands. Those delicate, long fingers were never idle—from dawn to dusk they were engaged in selfless service, nurturing, loving, and assuring the well-being of our family. She was graceful and the picture of a prim and proper lady. But she had a funny habit that few people knew about.
For all the good her hands did, they also had a mischievous side. You see, my mother’s fingers were tiny and she could not resist seeing where they would fit. During her first year in high school she put her finger in the ink well of her desk and had to have the cute boys from “shop” cut the desk off. Time after time I saw her fingers stuck in . . .
I smile when I think of my mother’s hands. Those delicate, long fingers were never idle—from dawn to dusk they were engaged in selfless service, nurturing, loving, and assuring the well-being of our family. She was graceful and the picture of a prim and proper lady. But she had a funny habit that few people knew about.
For all the good her hands did, they also had a mischievous side. You see, my mother’s fingers were tiny and she could not resist seeing where they would fit. During her first year in high school she put her finger in the ink well of her desk and had to have the cute boys from “shop” cut the desk off. Time after time I saw her fingers stuck in . . .
pop bottles, faucets and even a hole in the washing machine. Anything that had a small hole became her challenge. Despite being embarrassed about needing help to get un-stuck, she could never quite quell her curiosity.
Without fail, if olives were on the table, within minutes each of her fingers was topped with a black olive. Her kids and grandkids never failed to be amused, and of course, imitated her. Fortunately she could eat her way out of that dilemma.
Except for that personal quirk, my mother was a peaceful, quiet person that many described as their “angel.” Her hands weren’t strong, but they were full of purpose. She used them to strengthen and uplift—always working behind the scenes—taking tasty meals to those in need or just stopping in to comfort someone who was struggling. Nothing ever tasted as good as the food my mother’s hands prepared. Even when I used the same recipe, it didn’t taste the same. She said it was because her fingers added a little extra love.
One morning, as I entered the kitchen, her hands were clasped in fervent prayer. She seemed overcome with emotion. Her voice trembled as she explained that nothing was wrong but the night before she had a joyous dream about the second coming of Christ. She had seen the Savior and His image was so powerful that she couldn’t speak of it without weeping.
Her compassionate hands served God without judgment or complaint. She spent countless hours doing church work. I can still see those hands carefully examining fruit and vegetables when she took me to the store as a child. She searched until she had selected the most sumptuous produce I had ever seen. My mouth was watering—but much to my surprise, I didn’t get to taste one bite. She drove straight to a church member’s home and took all the groceries to the family. When I asked her why, she simply said, “They needed the food.”
At the end of the day when her body was tired, her hands never stopped. She turned plain thread into intricate doilies, eloquent afghans, lacey-edged pillow cases and a beautiful temple alter covering. Despite the beauty of each piece, her handiwork seldom stayed in our home …she gave everything away as a gift or as a charitable donation.
The touch of my mother’s hands made us feel important and loved. It was obvious that she wanted to be with us. We would snuggle in and play with her hands, pushing her veins down and watching them pop back up. Everyone learned “This is the Church, this is the steeple” and played hand stacking with her or try to figure out how she could turn her fingers inside out. My dad didn’t play games with her, but he loved to hold her soft, gentle hand. As he told her goodbye for the last time– after 60 years of marriage– he caressed her fingers and sorrowfully said, “I’ll miss her beautiful hands.”
Sometimes, when I glance at my aging hands today, for just a second I can see my mother’s hands. I am reminded of the way she used them to “do good continually,” and I hope I can honor her by doing as she did. As I set about trying to follow her lead, I can’t wait for the time when I can hold and kiss those precious hands and be with her again in our Heavenly home.
Without fail, if olives were on the table, within minutes each of her fingers was topped with a black olive. Her kids and grandkids never failed to be amused, and of course, imitated her. Fortunately she could eat her way out of that dilemma.
Except for that personal quirk, my mother was a peaceful, quiet person that many described as their “angel.” Her hands weren’t strong, but they were full of purpose. She used them to strengthen and uplift—always working behind the scenes—taking tasty meals to those in need or just stopping in to comfort someone who was struggling. Nothing ever tasted as good as the food my mother’s hands prepared. Even when I used the same recipe, it didn’t taste the same. She said it was because her fingers added a little extra love.
One morning, as I entered the kitchen, her hands were clasped in fervent prayer. She seemed overcome with emotion. Her voice trembled as she explained that nothing was wrong but the night before she had a joyous dream about the second coming of Christ. She had seen the Savior and His image was so powerful that she couldn’t speak of it without weeping.
Her compassionate hands served God without judgment or complaint. She spent countless hours doing church work. I can still see those hands carefully examining fruit and vegetables when she took me to the store as a child. She searched until she had selected the most sumptuous produce I had ever seen. My mouth was watering—but much to my surprise, I didn’t get to taste one bite. She drove straight to a church member’s home and took all the groceries to the family. When I asked her why, she simply said, “They needed the food.”
At the end of the day when her body was tired, her hands never stopped. She turned plain thread into intricate doilies, eloquent afghans, lacey-edged pillow cases and a beautiful temple alter covering. Despite the beauty of each piece, her handiwork seldom stayed in our home …she gave everything away as a gift or as a charitable donation.
The touch of my mother’s hands made us feel important and loved. It was obvious that she wanted to be with us. We would snuggle in and play with her hands, pushing her veins down and watching them pop back up. Everyone learned “This is the Church, this is the steeple” and played hand stacking with her or try to figure out how she could turn her fingers inside out. My dad didn’t play games with her, but he loved to hold her soft, gentle hand. As he told her goodbye for the last time– after 60 years of marriage– he caressed her fingers and sorrowfully said, “I’ll miss her beautiful hands.”
Sometimes, when I glance at my aging hands today, for just a second I can see my mother’s hands. I am reminded of the way she used them to “do good continually,” and I hope I can honor her by doing as she did. As I set about trying to follow her lead, I can’t wait for the time when I can hold and kiss those precious hands and be with her again in our Heavenly home.
