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My mom, Elda, died 15 years ago. I carry a vivid mental picture of her hands. They weren't pretty.
Mom's hands ran the wash for our family of 10 through a ringer washer, and hung it outside to dry summer and winter. Her hands changed diapers for eight babies, held eight babies to her breast, and packed about a half dozen school lunches every day. Sometimes they tapped out important messages on our bottoms.
While the rest of us watched TV at night, Mom sat at the end of our long living room couch, pushing cheap lotion deep into her rough, red fingers while reading her many devotionals. Over time, Mom's hands became ever more veiny, knobby and knuckle-y. She scolded herself for her unsightly hands and tried to keep them hidden.
She couldn't hide them in her casket, though. On the day of her funeral, Mom's hands lay there, a testimony to her — her values, her heart, her choices.
My father-in-law Emil provided for his family of nine as a plumber and later, after a serious injury, as a house painter. Working those tough jobs, he handled chemicals that today we know are dangerous. At the time, they weren't so well understood, and they would lead to Emil's long battle with emphysema. Early family photos show a strong, lean young man working his trades and building his family a home. Those images contrast with the worn frame of his later life, after a thousand acts of faithful service and love.
In these days of challenge and stress, some of us display our own versions of Mom's hands or Emil's weariness. In saying yes to our callings to serve families, friends, churches and communities, some of the impact registers.
