IT WAS TIME TO POLISH HER NAILS AGAIN. LAST TIME I ONLY DID CLEAR POLISH, BUT THIS DAY SHE WANTED PINK.

As I soaked her nails, I started to think about what those hands have done.

These were the hands that held me when I was colicky, fed me a concoction of mashed bananas and Poi when I couldn’t assimilate milk, changed my poopy diapers, and took my hand to help me hold steady as I learned to walk.

There I was, 59 years later, embracing her as she coughed, holding her orange juice and straw for her to drink down her meds, changing her diaper on the midnight shift, and yes, just the night before they, too, were poopy. There I was, holding her hands to help her steady herself as I moved her from her bed to her wheelchair.

Applying the pink polish, I couldn’t help but think about the dramatic affect hands can have on a life.

They can hurt or heal… exasperate or encourage …ignore or ignite.

There is great power in the two hands God has given us, and I am frequently moved to tears at the opportunity God has given me to use mine for good.

You see, my Momma was the negative influence in my life when I was a child. Highly critical, and a total perfectionist, she condemned me for the insatiable desire I had to explore and the nonstop energy that she tried, but just could not manage, to contain. She very rarely affirmed me or verbally encouraged me, but instead picked apart everything I did and compared it all to my “perfect” big brother.

How amazing it was that the night before I flew down to Texas to help that same brother care for her, I received some prayer ministry that included a new level of forgiveness for my Mom. The initial realization that she did the best she knew how to came right before I visited her for the first time in many years, but this last session finalized what I believe to be the last vestiges of woundedness I received at her hands.

What a blessing it was to use my hands to meet her needs during her last days, weeks and months on this earth. To love her and bless her and serve her with no regret or sorrow over the past.

May I ever be thankful for my Momma’s hands and how they shaped my life, and how mine were able to be instrumental in blessing her back.

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So, what kind of an affect did your mom’s hands have on your life?

Did they wound or empower? Harm or heal?

I’ll bet some of you had a mom who loved the Lord and planted in you a desire to please God and live for Him.

How did your mom mold your life?

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Thanks for visiting my blog. In case you don’t know my story, I had the honor of spending the last four months of my momma’s life helping my brother, Jim, care for her, down in San Antonio, Texas. It was a healing time for me after losing everything in a 12 year detour into deception, and a defining moment in my life that would prove to sweep me into a whirlwind of redemption that would include radio ministry, returning to Washington State to launch a new publishing company, and becoming a pastor’s wife.

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