“This too shall pass.” The hard times, the simple times. Colds, flus, and even seemingly permanent health conditions. Most things are temporary, I remind myself. The only permanent condition is death. And even then, I believe there is glorious life after this.
So when my body feels like it’s failing me once again, I remind myself that this pain will pass. And so will these beautiful little moments with tiny children who still desperately want to be held by me. Their handprints on the window glass won’t always be there, and somehow that makes even this clean-freak sad. I know I’ll miss seeing their toys strewn about the floor. They’ll be keeping me up all night not because of their own bad dreams but because of mine—wondering where they are and what they’re doing and if they’re safe.
All this will pass. It’s only temporary.
Remind yourself that when you are afraid your pain will haunt you forever; remind yourself that when the sun shines brightly on a February day and your child begs you to join them in play. “This too shall pass.”
You can’t call yourself strong if you haven’t been to hell and back,
If you haven’t carried a heavy load and watched your soul turn black,
If you’ve never trudged through mud while boulders weigh you down,
Watched the world you built burn to the ground.
But you learn to dig your claws into crumbling rock,
Your limbs become nimble, your eyes sharp like a hawk.
Resiliency stretches you from your feet to your hips,
See the looming mountain ahead and tho’ fear has its grip
You learn how to shake from its shadow and soldier on,
Emerging from darkness to follow the dawn,
Barely able to make it, your last ounce of energy,
Driven by hope, crawling on your hands and knees.
You’ve done it before and you’ll do it once more.
You are strong enough now to win this war.
My mother’s hands, once soft and delicate, touched her swollen belly while I grew inside.
My mother’s hands, always warm and welcoming, held me against her breast when I was newly born.
My mother’s hands, strong and encouraging, guided me as I walked through life.
My mother’s hands, both tender and firm, carried me when I couldn’t pick my broken heart up off the floor.
I’ve watched her hands change from youthful and soft to aged and worn. But her hands have always been open, ready to take my own in hers. She doesn’t often get manicures, and time has made her knuckles swell, but her hands are more beautiful now than they’ve ever been. Her hands show the story of her life; she has cared for all others before herself.
My mother’s hands are tough. My mother’s hands are loving. My mother’s hands are beautiful.
And as I age, I am beginning to see that my hands are changing too… just like hers.
They have held babies, led children, and are starting to carry others.
I am proud to have my mother’s hands.