For my baby girl on mother's day

As I snuggle with Emme, her head nuzzled into my neck, and her right hand softly grips the fabric of her woobie. I study Emme’s hand. It's a plump little thing--dimpled, smooth and creamy white.  As I look at Emme’s hand I am overwhelmed with happiness--and a little sadness--to think of where her hands will travel.  Today they're flawless little hands, untested by life's challenges and inexperienced in its joys.  But where will her little hands go tomorrow, and the next day.

Those little hands have already let go of mine as she took her first step.


They fan out into a sweet little five asking me to paint her "fingurnawus" pink "one more time"

They'll grasp a pencil as she clumsily but surely learns to write. 

They'll grip handlebars with a mix of joy and horror as her Dad-O runs behind her on her bike, almost ready to let go.

Those hands will wipe away many adolescent tears and slam many doors, but they'll still reach out for mine every now and then.

They'll pack her belongings as she leaves for home. 

 And they'll open our front door again as she comes back to visit.

How I pray those precious hands spend more time spread open in joy, rather than clenched in anguish. 

But wherever they travel, I hope they're often clasped in prayer.  I hope they're helpful hands, and merciful ones, and I hope they always have many, many other hands to grab onto.

One hand will wear a diamond from a handsome young man, and loosely hold her father's tuxedoed arm, eager to reach out for her future at the end of the aisle.

Those hands will grasp the bed sheets in pain as she fights to deliver her child, and they'll tremble in joy when she holds him or her the first time.

They'll feel many little foreheads, apply many band-aids and hold open many books.  And then, one ordinary day she will snuggle with that baby and it’s woobie, and she'll stare in bittersweet wonder...at its little hands.