Emily Belle Freeman



Her Hands

I spent the day moving hollyhocks. It was just the right weather for transplants.

So I dug holes, and I dug plants and filled holes, and watered plants.

I didn't buy the hollyhocks.  They were a hand me down.  They came from Grandpa Garth's home.  They were originally raised by a woman I never met.

As I knelt in wet grass and moved dark dirt I wondered about that woman.

What was she like?  Did she love the deep red of these hollyhocks as much as I do?  Did she kneel in wet grass and work her hands through the dirt?

I couldn't help but wonder what else did her hands did...

It's because my hands have been busy today.

They washed dishes and rotated laundry, and braided hair, and straightened bed sheets.  They turned holy pages, and carried a missing backpack into school five minutes late, and pulled the cord on the edger and pulled weeds.  They clapped at a lacrosse game, and captured memories with a camera, and sliced brussels sprouts for dinner.

And I realized something in that moment...you know what I loved most about my grandmother?

Her hands.

It's the same with my own mom, and my mother-in-law, and all of the women I admire.  I can't help but notice their hands.

They tell a story of love, and hard work, and compassion, and endurance.

I spent the afternoon looking through some photos.  What captured my interest was the hands of the mothers in each of the photos.

They speak of sacrifice.







Nothing compares to a mother's touch.  There is just something soft about a mother's hands.

This weekend I celebrate mother's.

The women who nurture and cherish and watch over and protect with hands that define the meaning of sacrifice.

My heart is filled with gratitude for my mother and my sisters and my grandmothers and my great-grandmothers...even the ones I never met.

Who left behind hollyhocks.

But more importantly, a legacy of love.