I look at my mother’s hands; Hands that hold love incarnate; Hands of healing; Hands of safety; Hands of strength and encouragement Maternal hands.
She sees me coming; Her hand reaches out, Not demandingly; Not in coercion; Not in entreaty; But with invitation A hand that invites My hand to reach out too, To connect; To rest; To regain security, So that, refreshed And strengthened, I can again rush out, To play; To explore; To gain new knowledge; To encounter fresh challenges; To experience new and Deeper hurts; Knowing always, That I can forever return; To hold her hand, Her hand which now Comforts and heals; Her hand that reminds me, That beauty and Pain are both Integral components of life; Her hand that comforts me; Her hand that holds My trembling hand, Gently, oh so gently, As, she, my Mother, Leads me To see beyond the intense Beauty and the Deepest pain, To a new level of understanding To see that there are Lessons to be learned From both the Light and the darkness, That I may Evolve a fuller And more empathetic Human being, Like I know she is. Her hand presses My little hand Cupped in hers, In reaffirmation of My being; And by her touch I know I am healed; I perceive deeper truths; I know I am Loved now and forever. Oh Mom, owner Of that miraculous hand That hand that conveyed so much I love you so; And thanks to you, I love me, too. Betty R. Stockley Copyright 1995