The mother's hand

My mother was visiting, she asked me to go shopping with her because
she needed a new dress. I don't normally like to go shopping and I'm
not a patient person, but we setoff for the mall together. We visited
nearly every store that carried ladies' dresses, and my mother tried
on dress after dress, rejecting them all. As the day wore on, I grew
weary.
Finally, at our last stop, my mother tried on a lovely blue
three-piece dress. The blouse had a bow at the neckline, and as I
stood in the dressing room with her, I watched as she tried, with much
difficulty, to tie the bow. Her hands were so badly crippled from
arthritis that she couldn't do it. Immediately, my impatience gave way
to an overwhelming wave ofcompassion for her. I turned away to try and
hide the tears that welled up involuntarily. Regaining my composure,I
turned back to tie the bow for her.
Our shopping trip was over, but the event was etched indelibly in my
memory. For the rest of the day, my mind kept returning to that
momentin the dressing room and to the vision of my mother's hands
trying to tie that bow. Those lovinghands that had fed me, bathed me,
dressed me, caressed and comforted me, and, most of all, prayed for
me, were now touching me in the most remarkable manner.
Later in the evening, I went to my mother's room, took her hands in
mine, kissed them and, much to her surprise, told her that to me they
were the most beautiful hands in the world.
I can only pray that some day my hands, and my heart, will have earned
such a beauty of their own.

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