HANDSFolded in her lap, their silent members each one a small monument to her character. The thumbs usually twiddled while she waited, always waiting, one over the other mechanically, like a well oiled engine, constant just like her patience. The index finger her wield of correction spared the rod literally, - short and pointed, strong just like her presence. The little finger a balance to power, prim, lifted, caring just like the person. Those hands, controlled, busy, responsible, reaching down, lifting up, prayerful and tender. Healing hands I have not known, but the comffort of those hands on my furrowed brow or against my cheek have driven away sickness of heart and fear of tomorrow. Working hands abused by scrubboards, hot wash water and plain old labor. How is it that their touch speaks softly their sermons so treasured?
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