In her homily yesterday, Becca talked about hands, about how Jesus , on the road to Emmaus, showed his hands to the disciples who didn’t recognize him. She spoke of the difference it makes to have a savior who knows woundedness. She told us that after years of giving communion into cupped hands, she can see so much in those hands—where nails stop and tips begin, who gardens, who works with his hands, who is a musician, who is a NEW musician, etc. She talked about people we could recognize by seeing their hands and asked whose hands ours resemble. When she said that, Anne and her mother lifted their hands, daughter’s on top, in a joining of genes and connection.

Christie’s hands are like mine but they seem to me smaller and more graceful, younger of course. They are lovely like she is. I don’t know if my hands resemble my mother’s. I fear it is one of the things lost in those years when I wouldn’t have dared to compare them. It’s more than that. I was always said to look like my dad’s family, as do my younger sister and my brother. Only Susan looked like a Campbell, and I always thought it made her a favorite. I know at least that looking like a Stewart weighed against me in the too-many years of my parents’ marriage. It never occurred to me that I might look like my mother, and now it’s too late to know about the hands because hers are twisted with arthritis. She says they hurt until they became ugly and then they stopped hurting.

I love those hands, the way she still uses them for her artistic gifts, the ways she wants to use them to cook meals for me and to hem my pants. The way she wants to touch me and make up for the years of not touching.

I visited my mother last weekend. I always notice anything that is changed about the house. This time, something new had appeared on the hearth. It was a large, molded plastic cherub, filled with silk flowers. Pretty dreadful. I wasn’t surprised when Mama told me it was a gift from my aunt and uncle. They’ve given her a series of fairly ghastly ornaments for the house, all of which she lovingly displays. There was a bit more about this display, though. As Mama said, “I don’t usually go for angels or crosses, but …”

“Don’t usually go for angels or crosses”--what an understatement! In past years, that thing would already have been melted in the bottom of her burning barrel. In my mother’s church, they can’t exactly deny that angels are spoken of, and since everything in that KJ Bible is taken literally, they’d have to admit there might be angels, if someone pinned them down. But, believe me, they can spend a lifetime dodging the subject, unless it might be to condemn any graven image of them.

That ugly cherub by the fireplace says so much about how my mother has changed because the thing definitely has wings, big ones. It’s partly, as I’ve learned and never would have predicted, when it comes down to it, my mother’s love outweighs her judgment when it comes to family. But I think it’s more than that. Becca didn’t discuss why the disciples didn’t recognize Jesus after the resurrection. I guess I’ve always thought they simply couldn’t admit the possibility to themselves or perhaps He had taken on some kind of a glory, on the way back to Heaven, you know. But now I wonder if, like my mother who has had her share, he hadn’t simply taken on the change that comes after suffering. It is a change that wakens compassion and openness, that allows people to show their scars. I think too that Jesus wanted them to recognize him. He wanted their love. I hope my mother can feel the love that I know she wants.



posted by Sandy at 12:34 PM