Mama's Hope

I love to hold my daughter's hand. I rub each finger and think of all she will do with these hands.  When will she get her first manicure getting ready for a special night? Who will be the first special someone to hold her hand? Will she later need to use the same fingers I now stroke to wipe away the tears he causes or cover her mouth as she laughs for joy? As her mind matures and her fingers stretch, will they be used to create magical paintings, play music that soothes the soul, delicately stitch the heart tissue of a trusting patient, or scrub dishes in the backroom of a New York greasy spoon? Will she cradle her child's head in her hands or cover her face as she weeps over her empty womb? Whose ring will grace her finger? Will it be worn with love or become a constant reminder of the source of bitterness she carries? As her hands begin to show the scars and callouses of life, who will be there to keep them warm? As age spots come, will she look down at them and be content with a life well lived or will she see tight clinched fists twisted with regret and disappointment? My hope for her is to live with her hands stretched open, palms to the sky, receiving God's blessing, letting it flow through her and passing on to others. In my brokenness, I rest in the faith it is not me alone who is responsible for her future. Though it is a daily sacrifice, I fold my own hands and put my hope in the One who created her chubby fingers and is continually knitting her tomorrows. Such is the hope of a mama.