Last Sunday during Primary, a handful of us mothers with our dresses covered in bathrobes and paper bags over our heads, answered questions posed to us in disguised voices. (The bags were decorated like faces. Truthfully, it had a pretty--unintended--creepy effect.) The children were to guess which mom was their mom.
Our answers weren't always clear, especially mine. I used a southern accent when I spoke--a bad southern accent but an accent that wasn't mine, nonetheless. And still, my son figured out who I was. Afterward, I asked him how he knew, and he said he recognized my hands. Well actually, he said he recognized my chappy hands. (So, I have old hands and a much younger face. I don't match.)
This made me think about my mom's hands. I could pull them up into my mind's eye in a minute. And I think I always could. If I were to look at a hundred mothers' hands, I'd recognize my mother's hands. Same with my dad. Isn't it beautiful that we know these people so well in our lives, down to the contours of their hands?
I pray that with these hands my children know so well, hands they will forever know from other hands, I can always do worthwhile, uplifting things. I pray I can have hands without reproach.