It’s been a long time since I was a child walking beside my Mama her holding my hand. She would hold mine when we went places. Didn’t matter where it was. And when I was uncertain or feeling insecure in some unfamiliar setting, I would grip tight on her fingers. Not that she would ever let mine go. I just wanted her to know I was holding on to her. Squeezing her fingers was my signal to her of “Don’t let go.” She didn’t need reminding, but I did it anyway. It’s what little boys do I suspect.

I didn’t need that security as much when I became a Big Boy. Freedom was the name of the game. “I’ll be right over here” I’d tell her. She trusted me to stay close by and keep my word. I didn’t need her hand. I knew where she was. I could get to her if I needed to. I didn’t need to though. I was growing up.  That too is what little boys do.

When I was of age, a young man able to drive with a new-found freedom the relationship morphed again. She and Daddy would always tell me “Remember whose you are and who you belong to”. I got it. She was reminding me that I carried them with me whether I wanted to or not. I was THEIR son. It was also to remind me of a night I surrendered my life to Jesus. He has an irrevocable claim. That is who I belong to. No regrets though there were times I forgot that fact.  Jesus, there are times I still do. For fear of disappointing them, I became quite adept at portraying an image of strength and maturity when the opposite was actually the reality.  My parents words still echo in my ears like a supper bell calling me home. Some 30 years later they still do.  Little boys don’t always listen but they do hear.

A mentor told me once that adults are nothing more than little people in big people bodies. That has helped me understand human nature more than you can imagine, especially my own. There are days this grown man doesn’t feel like a Big Boy. There are times when he wishes…where I wish I could grasp those fingers again…

Hands

This picture is the last photo I took of my Mama before she died.  Her hands tell stories – so many stories.  I hope to share those stories with my kids.  Some I already have.  Maybe more of those on this space in time.  Some moving, some silly, and some painful. To me, Mama was a good story-teller.  Every flower, country store, old house, grave yard, and little bird had a story.  Object lessons.  She kept those in front of me continually sowing seeds of remembrance which she hoped one day would push their way through the soil of time.  I didn’t know that at the time.  Everything has a story to tell – a lesson to teach.  Lord, it feels like everything is pushing through the soil all at once now.

I miss here more than I can say.  Usually I’d be calling her today to tell her “Happy birthday” and to make sure she got my flowers or card.  Not today.  She is beyond my reach.

So today I’ll just remember her hands.  And in her honor, I will extend mine to someone else.  She’d like that.

Happy birthday, Mama.

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