Her Hands

Hers were the prayerful hands to touch me first,

the day I nearly may not have been.

Hers were the praises which were said

That day her body wearisome bled

Hers was the embrace which cupped me first,

all five pounds wrapped up in charis

Hers were the lips which touched me then,

upon her breast, a tiny head beneath her chin

Hers were the gentle arms which ‘hugged up’ first

the many a’ moonlit eve’s by my bed.

Hers were the hands which held me then

The night I tearful told my aching for a friend

Hers were the “I love you’s” soft spoken first

with a sureness of depth which tree roots grow.

Hers were the “I love you’s” not said in words,

the tender three squeeze her palm constant assured.

Hers were the mornings she greeted me first,

for curls, stockings, pink blush and His word.

Hers were the fingers, aging even when       

playing with her rings upon the pew carved wooden.

Hers were the tear drops which hoped for me first

when dorm walls distanced her touch.

Hers was the gift I turned then to open,

Of ‘Gods Calling’ I saw her bow gaze at so often.

Hers were the ears I tickled to tell first,

when his knee bent down asking for me.

Hers were the fingers who tenderly wove

The day wearing white I radiantly did glow.

Hers was the ‘Grand’ moment I shared with first

upon pouring my soul out during birth

Hers are the hands, aged even more,

I see whisper love; cradling soft my boys.

Hers was the face I longed to see first

when the storms of life robbed my breath.

Hers was the hand rested sure on my back

that night darkness hovered the gripping color black

Hers was the toil, scores of days and nights

when the sparing of hope haunted my soul.

The road to recover, heal and to mend

found me as her hands ready-made me to stand.

Her hands have shared with me the smell of God

For they’ve held, taught, served and sang –

A story, these hands like hers, aging too

retell to the boy humming on the church row pew.

This Mothers Day I am sobered as I have learned there are elementary children

where we live that must get themselves up & ready to make the bus for school.
Why?
They fear getting a spanking if they wake their Mom up in the morning.


Happy Mothers Day to all the the Mommy's who

embrace & have embraced the challenging call to pour out
their hands

for the sake of their children.

                                                                                                           © Emily Murphy – July 22, 2010