I was so surprised during church today to look down and see, folded neatly in my lap, my mother’s hands! I remember sitting next to her in church, looking at her hands and thinking how old they looked. Now those old hands are mine… complete with club thumb!
I feel some pressure from society to feel horrified by the fact that I don’t look as young as I used to, but today I don’t. As I sat looking at my hands, I thought of all that they accomplish. Just like my mother, and her mother, and her mother before that…these hands have done a lot of work. They have washed dishes, scrubbed floors, changed MANY diapers, wiped away tears, applied band-aids, and the list goes on and on. It’s only right that they are looking older and well worn. They have earned that!
I thought about the rest of me, too. The slowly deepening creases on my face have their own stories to tell. Those lines mean that I have smiled much, and cared enough to worry sometimes. There are marks left behind by the sunshine, and some left behind by times of stress. I have a scar that will always remind me of a trip down the river. And I have…ahem… “saggy-ness” and stretch marks that are a constant reminder that I have born and nurtured many children.
In spite of the aesthetic imperfections, I am in awe of what a gift my body is to me. It is strong enough to work hard, to love and to serve and to care for my family. It has enough flaws to provide me with trials and opportunities for growth. It somehow knows how to create beautiful little bodies for my children. What a miracle is the gift of life! I can honestly say that, for me, I have the perfect body. And I am grateful.