Dear Mom,

When you were just a girl yourself, you gave life to me, your firstborn daughter.  You were new to the responsibilities of motherhood, even though you had cared for children as the eldest of your large family.  After my sister was born, you were very busy with a crying infant and active toddler.  Your caring hands diapered, fed, rocked, washed, cooked, and cleaned for your young family.

I remember your hands as they washed me with a warm cloth in a chilly bathroom, pulled polo shirts over my sleepy head and zipped up my jacket before a snowy walk to first grade.  On school mornings, your hands quickly served up hot chocolate, cream of wheat and mouth-watering cinnamon toast from the oven; counted out lunch money, grabbed forgotten gloves, and waved goodbye from the kitchen door as we dashed down the sidewalk.

I remember your hands when they chauffeured the big, green Buick, and turned pages in Ladies' Home Journal through a decade of summers and snowfalls while we took piano lessons at Mrs. Diffy's.

I recall your hands smoothing bright material across our kitchen table, and cutting out patterns for skirts to wrap around my heavy back brace in 8^th grade.  Your hands poured hot tea with milk to soothe the spirit; sliced homemade German chocolate cakes for birthdays and pizza on Friday nights when Dad got home late; prepared Southern-style Sunday dinners, and batter-fried White Bass at the lake on summer vacations.

With a generous heart, your hands bathed and fed your brother's babies, washed piles of diapers, prepared dinner for six when they lived with us, then washed dishes past our bedtime.  You gladly donated clothes and furniture to your nieces and nephews, and drove them to Sunday School in new shoes you'd slipped on their feet that morning.

I remember hands that tied satin sashes around prom dresses, pinned on fragrant corsages and snapped pictures of giddy teenagers at the front door on Kenton Street; hands that applauded at my nursing graduation, sewed pearls on velvet and taffeta wedding dresses and whip-stitched a hem seconds before I walked down the aisle! I still appreciate your lending a hand to write newsy letters and send mad money when I returned to school at Warren Wilson.

I'm reminded of your hands ministering to sick animals and sick children, and I saw you wring your hands when Anna was sick all night with a high fever. I recall memories of your joy when you cuddled Hadley moments after she was born; and years later, her laughter while she lay on the kitchen counter as you shampooed her silky hair.  Your loving touch with our dogs, Skippy and Daisy, also, fostered a compassionate ethic in me toward animals.

Your hands are still busy preparing lunches, driving to appointments, picking up grandchildren from school, putting in Dad's eye drops, and teaching little children to read.

In wisdom, Mom, you gifted me with my first Bible and penned a heartfelt message inside.  Years later, I would find your neat handwritten lines on worn scraps of paper for devotions you intended to polish someday.  Your dream to write devotions now nurtures mine.

With much gratitude, I thank you, Mom, for hands that held on tightly through triumph and trials, folded in prayer countless times and sacrificed more than we will ever know.  May God bless you and forever hold your hands in His.

                                                                      Love always,

                                                                            Barb

                                                                            Copyright October 2008   Barbara Parentini