Letter: Mother’s Day – Hands Reveal the Heart

“Hands in!” the coach will holler.

The four-and-five-year olds will huddle, scrunched together – after all their arms are not very long – and little fingers will drape over those of their teammates awaiting last-minute pre-game instructions.

Instructions like, “what do we do when we hit the ball?”

“Run to first!” all shout in unison.

“And can somebody point to first?”

Each wanting to be the first to point to first, all hands are removed from the pile and point in generally the right direction.

Correcting the answers as needed, the coach will place his hand on the hand of those pointing toward third and gently redirect their pointer finger.

Then he’ll say “Ok, hands back in!”

Hands pile on once again and so it goes.

“What do we do with our bat after we hit the ball?” This question requires more thought.

“Do we run to retrieve the ball after we hit it?”

The answer of course is ‘no,’ but it sure makes for a fun video – moms with cell phone cameras ever at ready – if their little ballplayer forgets when the game actually begins and chaos reigns.

Then there’s the grandma who kneels next to her youngest. If her little treasure would please hold still, grandma will try one more time to closeup capture that dimple, that button of a nose, those eyes so expressive, the blond hair curling behind her ear.

Just like her own.

Grandma so wished she didn’t live so far away to record these way-too infrequent memories.

Too often, way too often – though she so wanted to wrap her hands around her grandbabies herself – she was left to hold in her hands the pictures their mother had sent.

Oh, how they were growing up! Way too fast!

And then in the hospital, both his sweetheart and his mother with their hands holding his.

One last time.

As we left the florist with her purchase of flowers that she would tenderly lay on her son’s casket, I took her hand.

She smiled.

“My son always did that – take my hand. I asked him once if he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen in public holding his mother’s hand. He said to me ‘I don’t care what people think.’

“And then he had said, ‘I love you mom.’”

And with her hand, she brushed away tears.