MY MOTHER'S SMILE / MY FATHER'S HANDS

My Mother’s Smile

         A mother’s smile is a precious thing to behold. It’s the very first thing you see in life.
My mother always had a smile on her face. She smiled even while dealing with turmoil in her own life. She never showed her troubles to her six children. This is not to say that she never cried from pain, but watching her made me so proud of her strength, while going through those difficult times.
          She taught me more than schooling, hygiene, and manners, and raised me to have a good Christian set of values. She taught me how to smile, and to enjoy life, for it’s the only one we will ever receive.
          To this day in the twilight years of her life, she still struggles to smile. We all have numbered days, and many of them are busy days, which keep us apart. But her smile still remains along with the tears.
We both look at each other and know in a heartbeat that boundless love we have will remain forever, and her smile was passed down unto me, which in turn was passed down to my children, and my grandchildren, and also to her great grandchildren.
          To this I am ever so grateful for
My Mother’s Smile.

I Love You Mom

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My Father’s Hands

        One day at work I was high on a hill, contemplating my life. As I sat there staring at the vast land before me, I happened to look upon my hands.
I started to think back to my youth, when my hands were small. I remember my father’s hands, all callous and sore, and so much bigger than mine, but yet they were so gentle and warm. Safe I was in my father’s hands.
All of my life and even before I was born, my father’s hands worked hard to prepare a place so that I could live. Every callous, every sore were like a trial or tribulation, that his hands bore in order to provide for me.
     His hands protected me from dangers, not just the ones that confronted me, but also ones that I never knew or worried about. Because of his hands, I was free from worry or strife.
My father’s hands provided for me. I always had enough food and clothing, money and shelter. They always gave me more than that, even now, thinking back, things I should have never received at the time.
     I remember the love in my father’s hands, strong, yet firm, but yet even when I was bad and
so afraid that I was trembling in fear, they would comfort me. They would embrace me, while
my father’s words would console me, setting aside my fears and relieving my heart.
     His hands always gave me confidence and praise in everything I did. They were always there
to guide me, or hold me up, or to catch me after I had fallen.
     Remembering the sores and the bruised fingers, through good times and bad, through pain
and sorrow, his hands always gave me comfort and love, wisdom and knowledge that I never
realized before.
     Pondering all of this in my heart, I awoke from my days, now looking at my own hands. I
could see my own family, my loving wife and my healthy children.
And I start to praise God for giving me “My Father’s Hands.”