It was expected of me to sit very still in church as a child. As a pastor’s daughter, I would sit with my mother in the second row from the front. I would take my mother’s hand in mine, mostly to avoid the lady with the wide brimmed hat who bathed herself in perfume telling me to set a good example to the other kids, I would trace my mother’s fingers, compare our hand size, and make her diamond ring sparkle in the ray of sun coming from the window. Every Sunday, her hand outline would get further ingrained in my memory.
As I grew, those moments faded. I didn’t sit with my mother; I didn’t hold her hand, and the years took their place between us. It wasn’t until I became a mother that I became aware of her hands once again. Sitting on the floor holding my new born child and looking in the mirror, I saw it. The reflection of my mother’s hands holding my child. There they were, the hands that had for years held mine, were now, through me, holding my child.
My mother’s hands folded faithfully in prayer for her children, praying Scripture over us and handing us over to the Lord. It was my mother’s hands that helped steer and guide me through the obstacles in life. It was my mother’s hands that lifted me up when life was holding me down. It was my mother’s hands as she handed over the mantle of motherhood as she stood by the hospital bed seeing her first grandchild being born. Flesh of my flesh took on a whole new meaning.
As a mother, I became mindful of the use of my hands. My hands were more than just tools for doing; pushing a stroller or picking up laundry. I wanted my children to have the same impression ingrained in them. Hands that lifted them up, gave gentle admonishment, steered and guided. Hands that gave high fives, loud claps, and gathered them in for hugs. Hands that folded in prayer and hands lifted high releasing them into God’s care.
Today, my hands hold on one side the hands of my children and on the other my mother’s. I saw my hand merge into my son’s as he held his first child this past year. Every time I see him reach for her little hand and as he carries her close to his heart, there is a shadow of mine. With my mother, it is now my hands reaching to keep her steady through the oncoming obstacles of aging. My hands that lift her up when life is weighing too heavy and worries and fears are too great. It is our hands that join in prayer for our family as we wait for the day when my children will see our hands in theirs.
Pam Grimm (’87 – ’89) is married to Paul (‘89). Pam is the proud mom to three amazing children: Alex, Arianna, and Denver. Alex and his wife Danie gave Pam and Paul their first grand baby, Addie, last year. Arianna (attends TWU) and Denver (18) finishing high school. The Grimm family resides in Kelowna, BC. Pam works as a Communications Coordinator and volunteers with the TWU Parent team.