These Ole' Hands

Do you ever have those deja vu moments where you know you've heard or seen something before?
I do, occasionally, and I had one of them this morning. I reached out to open the car door, and as my hand touched the handle, I suddenly thought, "I've seen that before." Now, obviously, I've seen myself open a car door before, but there was something strikingly different this time: it was my mother's hand opening the door!

I remember my mother's hands as a child and as an adolescent. As a child, they were a source of comfort and love. In my judgmental adolescent years, I remember thinking, "Why can't you keep your fingernails longer? Why are your hands always dry - ever heard of lotion? You could keep your nails painted, at least."
Those hands are now mine. I am the mother with dry, wrinkled, red-knuckled, stumpy-fingernailed hands. I am the mother who loves and comforts and serves her children and husband. I will be the mother with snarky adolescent children soon, who are growing independently toward being mommies and daddies, themselves.
I can now appreciate what a mom's hands do for her family. I am honored. What a blessing!