The Hands that Prepared
By Dan Overcash
Rough, red, cracked and scarred
Mom serves shelled butterbeans
As Sunday fare….
Glad my buddies didn’t come.
Glancing away and down to pray,
“Thank you, Lord, for this food
And the hands that prepared it.”
Gnarled fingers clasp to agree
But in that silent pause,
My heart sees with better eyes.
Thread winding, cone to cone
From midnight to dawn;
Scrubbing flour sacks,
Shirting sewn for a son
That “will make it one day.”
Soapy dishes, shucking corn
Picking cotton in noonday heat;
Strips binding bloody fingers
Where thorny bowls cut deep
Into hands holding hope.
Shiny leather stride stairs to center stage
NASA engineers stand amazed.
“We will launch a manned mission
To Mars in 2020, and this is how…”
Not ashamed, nor bowed,
Head up, fingers spread,
The old familiar grace resounds!
“Bless the hands that prepared…”
Dismissing the ritual “Amen,”
I gently whisper, “This is for you, Mom.”