Mom's magical hands

As I look back at the memories of my childhood, a strong image that comes to my mind is that of my mother’s loving hands. As I was the first child of my parents, I received all the love and attention. But when more brothers and sisters added on, I thought my mother’s would get divided among all the children, thereby truncating my share of love. But it was not so. Her love was in such abundance no child of hers ever felt the dearth.

As a matter of fact, I was often sick with a variety of illnesses. My memories of those illnesses, however, are mostly pleasant, because my mother would gently stroke my brow as she talked softly or told me stories and gave me her full attention. I remember feeling very loved from such focused attention.

Other times, when I fidgeted, I remember my mother’s hands massaging my own, pulling and squeezing each of my fingers, playing with them. As a young child, sitting next to her, with my younger brother in her lap, I would watch her hands as she read to me chapters from Quran. Her fingers would point to the enticing, heart-delighting stories of prophets as we leisurely sat together, talking and reading.

During the period when I had a recurring nightmare – one that I still remember – I especially remember the comfort of my mother’s hands when she came to my bedside. She would take my hand in hers as she knelt to pray with me, soothing away my fears and comforting me as she entreated God to take all of my bad thoughts away.

Now, many, many years have passed but the memories of my mother’s hands are still strong in my head. Yet, I often wish she were with me to stroke my brow in the midst of illness and exhaustion, to massage away the frustration and boredom of tedious days, to open the windows to the world while reading to me in her typical style and to take my hand in prayer and cast away all the fears of my life. The touch of my mother’s hands and the power of my mother’s love have, indeed, carried me through many moments in life.

My mother was truly loved by all her children and family members. I remember her as a survivor, who overcame the trials of life. She faced many physical, emotional, and spiritual battles, enduring much pain, rejection, and betrayal. Nevertheless, by the grace of God, she was delivered out of all her afflictions.

Now my mother reigns eternally in heaven with our father. I believe the day she died, God looked down on her and said, “You’ve worked and suffered enough. It’s now time to rest.” Today she may not be with me, but whenever I am sick, I feel her fingers moving through my locks and gently stroking my brow. I know it is my illusion but this is what I am left with. Mom, you are remembered.