Sometimes I glance down at my hands and scream. What are my mom’s hands doing at the end of my arms? I hear myself reprimanding my kids and I jump back. How did my mom’s voice become mine? When I look in the mirror, I try to find a resemblance to her. After all, turning into my mom isn’t bad.
She loved playing scrabble with me and always looked forward to snow days when she could spend some extra time with her kids. As a busy pastor’s wife, she raised four kids. While others stared at her wheelchair and crutches, she taught me patience, compassion and persistence. Most importantly, she modeled for me what it takes to be a mom. So when I glance down at my hands, I am happy that I carry a reminder of her.