The Hands of a Mother

Like you, I’m thinking about my mom this weekend. Although she passed away six years ago, deposits in my memory bank over the years continue to compound with interest. One of my final memories of my mother is watching her play the piano a couple weeks before she died. In spite of her dementia, she could still make those eighty-eight keys sing beautifully.

As I listened to her play hymns she taught me as a boy, I looked at those familiar hands. Those gnarled age-spotted fingers called to mind a lifetime of special moments. My mom’s hands diapered me. They cradled me while rocking me to sleep. They washed my clothes, prepared my meals, baked my birthday cakes and soothed my fevered brow. My mother's hands expressed her love even when they were an expression of “hands-on” discipline.

Those hands taught me how to tie my shoes. They guided my fingers as I followed her example and learned how to play the family piano. They applauded my performances at high school band concerts and musicals. They folded in prayer as I contemplated my life decisions.

As my mom was nearing the end of her earthly journey, I held her fevered hands and thanked her for her nurturing love in my life. And as I stroked those hands, I laid her in God’s hands all the while expressing gratitude for the gift He gave me in her.

Speaking of hands. One of my favorite Rembrandt paintings is called “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” It was completed a couple years before the master’s death and hangs in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. In that famous work of art, the father welcomes his wayward son home with a poignant embrace.

You no doubt have seen this timeless masterpiece in books, posters or online. Like Rembrandt’s The Nightwatch, it is stunning in its composition and color. What you likely haven’t noticed in this portrayal of Jesus’ famous parable is the nuance Rembrandt used to pictured the father’s hands. The father’s left hand resting on the prodigal son’s shoulder is visibly strong and masculine. The right hand, however, is soft and tender. It resembles that of a woman.

As I have reflected on this often-overlooked detail, I have come to the conclusion that Rembrandt was purposely conveying a theological truth. The hands of the father are intentionally different. Whereas Jesus invited his followers to refer to the Creator as a father, the artist wants us to embrace the fact that the Almighty has characteristics of both a masculine and feminine parent. Although the Sovereign in both Judaism and Christianity is neither male nor female, there are qualities in God’s care that we could easily relate to both.

This weekend we take time to honor mothers who are living and the memory of those who are deceased. It is also an appropriate opportunity to contemplate the motherly nature of our Heavenly Father. There are passages of Scripture that compare God to a mother bird feeding her young, a woman nursing her infant child, a mother teaching her child how to walk and an eagle stirring up the nest of her young. There are verses that celebrate the fact that ours is a God who loves us with an everlasting love.

Since retirement I find myself missing the chance to deliver sermons on significant days like Christmas Eve, Good Friday, Easter and Pentecost. But this year I have the opportunity to be a guest preacher on Mothers Day. And I am grateful. With that in mind, I offer some lines from my journal this week that are helping to inform my preparation for Sunday.

Although Jesus called you Father,

You are like a mother, too.

You’ve been gentle, kind and merciful to me.

Like a mother hen You gather me

within Your outstretched wings.

Like a nursing mom You nourish tenderly.

Precious Lord, forgive my failings.

With compassion, hold me close.

Take my hand and calm me from the things I fear.

Whisper that You’ll never leave me,

that You’ll shelter me from harm.

Like a mother, please assure me You’ll be near.