These are the hands that held the promise of new lives and first breaths.
The hope of let me help you back up and let me take you there.
The fear of one frozen last touch.
The hesitation of reaching out and letting go.
The nudge of encouragement and showing the way.
These are the hands that baked the cakes, gave the gifts, made the moments.
These are the hands that caught the tears, wrapped the wounds, comforted the cries.
These are the hands that felt the clutch of a baby’s fingers
and feel smaller as her grasp grows in mine.
They anticipate waving the goodbye, releasing the veil, opening the door.
They remember the softness, the goodness, the grace
and offer the spirit, receive the glory.
And these are the feet that were scuffed and stung answering the call of bare ground.
Marched into unknown lands and paved new paths.
Danced under stars, danced into dreams.
Swelled under the weight of childbearing changes.
Pushed the limits on hills and in rain, delivering cherished surprise.
These are the feet that paced the hospital hell, the newborn darkness, the edge of daring and discontent.
These are the feet that splashed in the rain, walked in trust and jumped for joy.
These are the feet that felt the solid shake beneath their soles
and now crackle and snap with age.
They anticipate the challenge to stand, the miles to walk, the rest they’ll receive.
They remember the tickles in bed, the crunch of the leaves, the warmth of the sand
and lead me to love, carrying me home.
Witness to extremes of black and white, standing on a foundation of all my delight.
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