Hands.

When I think about my mom, I think about her hands.

Even in her 40's, where my memory holds them, they were wrinkled and dry.
Dry from the dishes, the endless dishes that filled her sink. Dry from the dishes of her nine children, husband, and constant guests. Dry from the dishes of church dinner parties, with plates stacks around the counter corner. Dry from the dishes of English classes and tutoring snacks. Dry from the dishes of late night tea with a desperate soul.
The dishes never ended.

Even in her 50's, where my memory holds them, they were strong and callused.
Callused from working the yard and loving the earth. Callused from the hundreds of spankings on nine sore behinds.  Callused from loaded laundry baskets that were somehow always full. Callused from gripping the wheel too tight as she cargo-ed her loved ones from morning till the last train in. Callused from home cooked meals; burns and knife cuts a constant wound.
The calluses never faded.

Even in her 60's, where my memory holds them, they are soft and loving.
Loving for her husband. Loving for her nine kids through 39 years of stubborn, sinful hearts. Loving for her twenty two grandchildren over oceans and time.  Loving for the students she serves in each class she teaches.  Loving for the work her Lord has put before her to do.
The love never ended.

Even though the nails aren't painted or the skin properly moisturized, these hands are the most beautiful hands my memory will ever hold, because these are the hands that serve.
No hands could ever be as beautiful, and no person could ever be as blessed then to be served by them. These hands belong to a woman of valor.
How thankful I am for these hands; servant hands pumped with blood from a servant heart.
Her hands are beautiful because her heart is beautiful; the most beautiful.
This beauty will never fade.