jumping at de sun

"Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to 'jump at de sun.' We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground." ~ Zora Neale Hurston

I started the year off by creating a Vision Board to set my intentions for the year with special emphasis on my creative life as a writer~artist. Of course, I included an image of my favorite author and WOmanifesting shero, Zora Neale Hurston, in a corner of the board. Next, I wrote down specifically what I wanted in a prayer request and made the pledge that “I will be bolder and bolder in the sharing of my gifts, story, and compassion.”  The blending of the selected imagery and words became my daily inspiration and affirmation. Then things just started happening…

Becoming Zora Timeline

1/7-1/8            Create Vision Board with Zora’s image and place it on wall next to my bed to see it every morning and night -1/7 is Zora’s birthday.

1/8                   Place a copy of the image as my cover page on Facebook

1/9                   Place a copy of the image on my wall at the office

1/16                 WOMA, (www.womanifesting.org, non-profit for which I’m the Executive Director) signs up to sponsor the Liberated Muse production called “In Her Words”, (www.theyliveon.wordpress.com) written and produced by Khadijah “Moon” Ali-Coleman. This theatrical musical production pays tribute to transformative African-American women artists and Zora is one of them listed along with Lucille Clifton, Lena Horne, Billie Holiday, and Nina Simone. I am excited and can’t wait to support and attend the production.

1/19                 Receive an email from Khadijah, telling me my love for Zora is palpable and asking me if I would like to portray Zora in the production because the original cast member will not be able to do it. I email her a picture of me dressed as Zora as my resounding yes! It will be an absolute honor.

1/20                 Receive the script. PANIC. What have I gotten myself into? Self-doubt creeps in BIG time. My last acting gig was in 8^th grade as Tom Sawyer in a Huckleberry Finn production (ran out of boys). There are way too many lines to remember in two weeks! I feel a wee bit (a lot) overwhelmed. I reach out to my girlfriends to calm my nerves and to gain assurance. They advise me. They pump me up. I love them.  I feel better. OK I can do this. Zora, I will not let you down. Now, please stop staring at me wherever I go. It’s getting kinda creepy. LOL

Begin to immerse myself in all things Zora – books on my shelf, You-tube videos, and her essays – especially, “How it Feels to Be Colored Me.” I am reminded over and over again why she is one of my faves. I feel really inspired. I can do this.

1/ 21                Attend first rehearsal – OMG – The cast is amazing. So much talent and they all have so much love for the women they are portraying. I love the finale when all the cast members come to the stage and sing. Well…not everyone sings. They give me a noisemaker instrument to make sure I have something to do so I won’t be tempted to sing. I practice lip~synching and my two-step.

Get to work. Memorize. Memorize. Memorize – in the mirror, in the car, walking to and fro, in the shower, under the bed, on tables… My daughter Sasha is starting to say the lines right along with me. My favorite line is, “No. I do not weep at the world. I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” I can do this.

1/27                 Friend Heidi (an anthropologist like Zora who is from Florida like Zora was) wins tickets to see “GLEAM”, a theatrical adaptation of “Their Eyes Were Watching God (75th anniversary this year)”, Zora’s signature novel and my favorite book of all times. She gifts the tickets to me.  I am thrilled and so appreciative of her generosity. I can’t breathe. Zora, my goodness, please slow down.

1/29                 Lucy Anne Hurston, Zora’s niece, visits Eatonville, the restaurant in DC that pays homage to Zora. Miss Lucy is the featured guest for a series called “Food

Me and Lucy Anne Hurston

and Folklore” and will be sharing Zora stories in celebration of her birthday month.  I go (run) to meet Miss Lucy and just happen to mention that I will be portraying Zora in an upcoming production. She embraces me and invites me to sit next to her at her table. Happy dance. I ask tons of questions and soak up all her wonderful spirit and some of Zora’s too coming through her. It is a most splendid evening. Showtime is a little under a week. I am confident that I will be ready. (I think.)

2/4                   Showtime at DC Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. Nerves. Stage. Action. I did it!  The cast rocked it! @thepbg tweets “MOTHER ZORA JUST SHOWED UP! I’m getting my whole life!”  That review works for me.

Later that evening, still dressed as Zora with hat, baubles, and sparkling shawl, I attend the “GLEAM” performance at Centerstage in Baltimore. My dear friend, Samantha, who accompanies me, says no to me bringing the long, golden cigarette holder. It’s a great, fresh adaptation and I love seeing the characters brought to life. After the show, my one desire is to get a picture with that fine character Teacake but unfortunately the cast never comes back to the stage after taking their bows. I’m really disappointed. My high starts to s l o w l y come down. I am in the lobby wondering why no one is recognizing me. Don’t they realize that the playwright of the production is standing right before their very eyes! Samantha tries to gently bring me back to reality. “It’s 2012. Your name is Tracy”…” “OK.  I think I got it.  If we leave now, we can still make the last train to Harlem and see who’s hanging out at Lenox Lounge. Langston owes me a drink”. She shakes her head and drags me out by my shawl.

2/16                 The cast performs for the Peace Corps to a very attentive audience. We are their Black History Month event and the performance is live-streamed to their affiliate offices around the world (the world, the world – echo, echo). The Director, Aaron S. Williams, shows us appreciation and with all the flags around, it feels like we just served our country, “tis a thee.” Proud.

2/18                 The Final Performance is held at DC Capital View Neighborhood Library. Afterwards, the manager of the library writes that the performance was described as “great,” “exceptional,” “inspirational,” “excellent,” and “beautiful.” Several attendees connected the informative content with the significance of the women and their times, pointing out that your format presented a remarkable “history lesson.”  Mission accomplished.

2/19                 Rest. Breathe. Give thanks for the experience.

I took Zora’s mama’s advice, left my comfort zone, and jumped at the sun, not landing there but definitely getting off the ground. The original reason for including Zora on my vision board was to spark my writing life in 2012. I consider myself fully sparked so this is what I must do…write…write…write. We can be inspired by so many things and so many people but then it’s up to us to DO, to ACT, to WALK through all the open doors inviting us to GET BUSY making our dreams happen. The vision continues.

Photo by Ben "Hook" Dawson, Jr.

Shoutout to the wonderful cast of “In Her Words”:  Colie Williams, Quineice Singsoul, Naomi Rose, Nia Simmons, Anisha Newbill, and William Henderson on bass.

AND THAT”S A WRAP!

grandma martha’s quilt: the gift that keeps on giving

Not too long ago, my aunt Asarene (Auntie Rene) received an email from a former schoolmate named Karen, class of 76ish. Thanks to Facebook, they had “friended” each other a year prior and exchanged contact information. We all grew up in Mount Holly, Arkansas, a town so small that Wikipedia describes it completely in three sentences. Karen said she had something special for my aunt and invited her to visit her mother’s home in Arkansas to receive it. My aunt was intrigued but needed some additional information to embark upon an unplanned trip from her current home of Tennessee to Arkansas—not exactly a short drive. So Karen proceeded to tell her the reason she had reached out. She explained that her mother had presented her with a lovely quilt as a gift. The quilt had belonged to her father who had passed a decade earlier. She went on to say that this quilt had been given to him by his former nanny, whom the family called “Aunt Mathy,” on the occasion of his wedding day in 1958. He had kept it tucked away for all of his adult life. My Auntie Rene inquired gently about how this was connected to her. That’s when Karen revealed that her family’s “Aunt Mathy” was actually Auntie Rene’s grandmother, Martha Johnson. She said she was touched that her mother wanted to pass the quilt down to her but she told her that she knew someone to whom the quilt would hold great meaning, and she would go about contacting that person. Upon hearing this, my aunt almost leapt for joy. Auntie Rene is the family member who is most devoted to capturing our family’s history and who remembers everyone’s birthday and anniversary religiously. The quilt could not have been placed in better hands in its transfer from one family to ours.

Auntie Rene, my Uncle Larry, and Auntie Jackie made the journey back to the town of our youth. While we have all since moved to various parts of the country, far-flung, we still consider Mount Holly our ancestral home. Karen’s family welcomed their guests warmly and presented Grandma Martha’s quilt to them with ceremony. Auntie Rene thanked them for the care they provided it and their generosity in sharing it with our family after nearly 55 years in their possession. Then lunch was served and a lively conversation ensued. An elder of the family, a gentlewoman of 91 years, recalled that “Aunt Mathy” was a kind, smart lady who loved to fish. She would often go fishing with the family, and at the end of the day, barter her catch for milk, butter, eggs, and meats. She also remembered an expression “Aunt Mathy” would always say: “I take my bath at night so that if I die in my sleep, they won’t find me dirty.”

I, who share my aunt’s love of history, was very excited to hear this story. Grandma Martha passed before I was born and I knew little of her.  I wondered how the quilt could be shared among family members so we could all honor Grandma Martha and her creation in a personal way. Maybe each family could care for it at various times and perhaps it should be stored in a fire-proof bag for protection, although heretofore, it had been simply stored in the other family’s closet. When I asked my aunt how we could all partake in this valuable expression of our ancestral history, she simply told me to stay tuned. With assurance, I waited in patience.

One week later, I received a package and opened it to discover that Auntie Rene had designed a special calendar to pay tribute to Grandma Martha and her quilt. On the calendar’s cover was the only picture of Grandma Martha that I had ever known, her dressed in a pretty yet simple dress and hat.  There is a sense of serenity and a quiet confidence in the slant of her eyes, the tilt of her head, and the slight upturn of her delicate lips. Outlined on the inside of the calendar’s cover was the history of this remarkable lady whose spirit chose to speak to us directly, at this time, in this way. It stated that Martha Johnson was born between the late 1850s and early 1860s, and that she lived until about the ripe age of 103 years old, passing in January 1963. On each succeeding flap were additional facts and memories of our family elder, as told by her grandchildren, the children of Robert Johnson, my grandfather. She was married to Sam Johnson and they had seven children.  I learned that she had a daughter named Novella. As a writer, that made me smile. I also learned that for Grandma Martha, fishing was not merely a means of survival to gain necessities for her family but something she enjoyed leisurely with her own family’s children. More themes emerged as I read this special calendar. In the memories of each of my six aunts and uncles that knew her, she was described as generous and just crazy in love with her grandkids. She would walk the trail in the woods that connected her home and that of my grandparents daily to see them or they would walk the trail to see her, and she always had something special to give to them. She loved to bake and provided treats like sugar cookies and buttery blackberry pies on a regular basis. Other fond recollections included:

~ She bought me my first suit.

~ I would sit and talk to her on Aunt Maggie’s porch.

~ I remember sitting next to her wooden stove while she sewed quilts.

~ She wore hats, one with a little short brim around it.

~ I can see her sitting in the special corner seat at the end of the bench near the window where she always sat in church.

~ When she looked at you, you knew she loved you.

What rang true about all the expressions of love from both families for one of our matriarchal figures is whether you called her Grandma Martha or “Aunt Mathy,” her legacy remains the same. She was regarded as a kind, loving, spiritual lady who loved family, especially children, and enjoyed fishing, baking, and quilting.

Maybe one day I will get the opportunity to wrap myself in that beautiful quilt and experience the love of the noble woman who pieced it together. While this would be wonderful, it is not the promise of an anticipated tactile experience that most stirs my soul. It is not even the quilt in and of itself. It is what it embodies that carries power. It is her story that manifests through the memories of those who knew her and the warm thoughts of those who now know her. We all carry her spirit forward in remembrance. My Auntie Rene understood this well when she gathered the memories with care like patchwork and presented her gift to us via the special calendar. And now I present to you, Mrs. Martha Johnson, beloved.

And That’s A Wrap!

womanifesting

Be back soon with something womanifested…

dear 2010

Goal Poster/Vision Board Created January 2010

Dear 2010:

Although, I am more than ready to move on, we did have some wonderful times. I will hold these times dear to my heart.  I want to end this on a good note so you’ll know that you came into my life for a reason and a season and I do not take your contributions lightly. I am most appreciative! Here are some highlights of our brightest memories:

I started 2010 unemployed and uncertain of my future but by February, I was inspired to launch a non-profit that stemmed directly from my dreams, passions, and values (www.womanifesting.org) and I received amazing rewards for taking this leap of faith. We had several successful and well-attended events and the best is yet to come!

Late June, I received an assignment in line with my skills and values. In my role, I essentially help the unemployed receive training and find work in the healthcare sector. Very rewarding…

Both above career moves marked a departure from the practice of law. Hallelujah!

Also in June, I had a heavenly vacation in St. Lucia with some amazingly cool ladies. Great memories!

The fall brought love to my writing passion:

“Wrap-around Porch”(http://passionateself.wordpress.com/2010/08/26/wrap-around-porch)

“Friday Night” (http://issuu.com/tidalbasin/docs/fall_winter_issue_2010_-_tidal_basin_review?mode=embed&layout=http%3A%2F%2Fskin.issuu.com%2Fv%2Fdark%2Flayout.xml&showFlipBtn=true)

“Returning Home” (http://asouthernjournal.com/Ezine/2010v32mcghee.html)

Finally, I was accepted into a two month fiction writing workshop that provided me with invaluable feedback from esteemed author and teacher, Marita Golden (http://maritagolden.com/) and super talented and supportive classmates. I am now focused on writing my novel purposely and passionately.

This year also brought me closer to persons that share my definition of friendship. These angels truly support, encourage, and uplift me in so many ways. What a gift! Thank you.

My family continues to be a source of love, strength, joy, and “rootedness” that I can depend on no matter what. What a blessing! I adore and appreciate them.

As for the bad times, I have placed them in a keepsake box for you—minus the valuable lessons learned, of course. I earned the lessons and they will come in handy in 2011. Anyhoo, feel free to bury or destroy them if they prove too painful, just make sure I never see them again.

So thank you 2010 but this is the end. Time for 2011, who is promising big, big things for me and the passionate ones. No hard feelings. SMOOCHES & DEUCES!

Love,

TCM

PS: 2010, please abide by the terms of the restraining order. It really is over…To the left…did I stuh stuh studder? #whatever #youaresodone #peace

***This blog entry was inspired and fully sanctioned by the Day 28 Assignment for the 31 Days to Reset Your Life Challenge. Learn more about the challenge here.***

AND THAT’S A WRAP

returning home

Creative Nonfiction Piece

RETURNING HOME

Tracy Chiles McGhee

I’m cruising in the back seat of my uncle’s brand new, sleek, gold Cadillac. The new car scent is competing with the waft of my aunt’s Calvin Klein Obsession perfume and the perfume is winning–just a little spritz on the left, then the right side of the neck, and then on the left wrist before rubbing both wrists together and that’s all it takes to set sail and dominate an enclosed space. We are the lead car in a caravan of three cars filled with descendants of Robert and Lydia Jonson. We had gathered in Little Rock, Arkansas for our annual Johnson Family reunion  and now we are on the tail end of our three-hour journey southeastward to a small town (really small) called Mt. Holly, Arkansas. Slowly but surely, we’re making our way down a well-traveled road to the house where most of us were raised–my mother, six aunts, one uncle, and me. Thank goodness my uncle has got the air conditioner on full blast since this is a hot and steamy day in Razorback country.

The last time I was in these parts, I was eleven years old. Back then, on a day like today, you might have found me dressed in a rainbow-colored halter top and cut-off jean shorts swinging my dusty bare feet over the edge of our  concrete porch, slurping on a grape Popsicle and daydreaming about boys, distant places, and if I dared—both. Now a young woman, I’m a tad more sophisticated—a private school Cali girl turned spirited Georgetown University student turned budding D.C. lawyer. No matter. I’ve still got country girl sensibilities, although no one would know since my southern accent and vernacular have long since been diluted. Stern reminders of proper grammar and diction, as well as immersions into various cultures on both coasts have blended into my composition and created multiple layers. It is on that very first layer, closest to my heart, where “y’all” naturally rolls off my tongue instead of “you.” Of course, it doesn’t take long before I pick the cadence of my people right back up. Yes, a return down South to the exact place I took root was long overdue and I am more excited than ever to be nearing our destination. The plan is to visit the old house and then go to the cemetery, which is located just a quarter mile away. My grandparents are buried there, along with countless others in both marked and unmarked, tended and untended graves.

I’m peering out the window and the memories are flooding in. I really want to roll down these tinted windows to get a better three-dimensional, full color view as we ease on down memory lane, but I wouldn’t dare let this arctic gust out and that scorching, tropical-like heat in. WOW! To the right, there’s Union A.M.E., the church we attended before we joined New Jerusalem Baptist Church in a nearby town. Mt. Holly only had one “Black” church and one “White” church. I only stepped foot in the “White” church once when I participated in a piano recital. My piano teacher was a member of the church and had made arrangements to have all of her students perform there. I remember being scared out of my mind but I also remember hitting the notes to Lavender’s Blue perfectly and how they all clapped for me at the end—Black and White.

Now look! It’s Miss Tinsey’s house! Oh my goodness!  It’s still the same. Nothing has changed, except maybe the great big satellite dish protruding from the rooftop. Ha! I bet Miss Tinsey was the first to get this outside look of the world. She always made the long walk to her house worth it with the goodies she had. After all, she was the much revered and sought after Candy Lady. My twin aunts (only three years older) and I would pick honeysuckle on the way there and then buy Snickers and Butterfingers once we arrived. Afterwards, we’d play with the steady flow of foster children that she and her husband, “Son Cat” took in and Joyce, whom they adopted. We’d sometimes stay overnight, which meant taking another bus route to and from school. That was exciting. Plus Joyce had Atari so we could play video games until we were forced to take a break to eat. She also had a whole lot more records than we did, but we both had the full Jackson Five collection. Ah…what memories!

We keep moving along down the road, and me, back in time. Just a little ways more, we turn left and climb a slight hill that was once made of the red clay my mother craved and ate when she was a little girl. I’m told she was teased about that, but she just couldn’t help it. We now know that unusual craving is called pica which is caused by iron deficiency. I would later suffer the same condition in high school, but flour was my poison. I’d even take it for lunch in a Glad sandwich bag.

I know this route well. Once down the hill, we will take an immediate left and see the narrow, graveled road that leads to our humble yet well-kept home that sits back from the main road on its own hill. Man, I can’t wait to walk through that door! Can’t wait to get inside all those memories and wrap myself in all that love within those walls. But after we turn, the car slows down even more, just when I think it should speed up. The road is unbelievably overgrown and way shorter than I remember and then…and then I try to focus through frantic, searching eyes. I do not see my house. I fight for air and start to hyperventilate! No! This cannot be happening! It’s GONE. My house is gone. There is no structure. No remains. No crumbling roof. No white siding. No black-trimmed windows. No concrete porch. No straw chairs. No door. Nothing left but shrubs and weeds and trees. The car stops and I jump out and fall to the ground where I vomit. I hear someone say I thought you knew and another explain something about how the house had to be razed because it was too difficult to maintain from a distance and how it had become a haven for squatters, drug addicts, and low-lives. I don’t want to hear it. What cruelty!  This is not right. No one warned me that my house had been murdered. I feel betrayed. Soft voices and strong hands try to console me but I am deaf and numb. I should have never come back to this barren, forsaken place.  The sight of this shrunken-in piece of land has robbed me of my memories, and I do not have the strength to get up from this cold, bitter, homeless ground. The tears flow. I sob.

Time stands still, that is, until I feel the weight of a breeze on my shoulders. This strikes me as a very familiar sensation. I’m suddenly moved to look over to the right, and that’s when I’m faced with the towering oak tree that stands in front of where my house once stood. But oh how I remember this tree! When we played tag, it was the base to seek safety. This is the tree where we were guaranteed to find at least one baby blue Easter egg tucked away at the trunk if you were fast enough to make it there first. When we played hide-and-go-seek, behind this tree, is where the seekers stood, pressed their arms and face to the bark, closed their eyes, and counted to ten. Ready or not, here I come! This is the tree that shielded us from the harsh sun, where birds built their nests, and squirrels played and then dined well on the acorns it bore. This is the tree that bears witness to our Johnson family legacy and keeps watch through seasons and more seasons even though we and our house are now gone. This is the tree. This is the tree. This. Is. The. Tree. I wipe my tears and slowly rise and stand before the mighty oak to take in its majesty. I take a deep breath. I am home, and I am okay.

Now we can continue down the road to embrace our ancestors and reminisce and break bread. They are expecting us and will be overjoyed to see us. I hug the tree tightly and then head back to the car where the air is still cool and heavy with fragrance and a new car scent that refuses to be engulfed.

Returning Home  was published in Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal (  http://asouthernjournal.com/), Volume #32 October – December 2010

And that’s A Wrap!

wrap-around porch

Wrap-Around Porch

The porch is now empty after much
womanifesting and storytelling
and sipping and fanning
and swatting and funning
and coming and going
through the screen door.

The mosquitoes have passed out,
so drunk, full of our blood moonshine.
Green-gold fireflies pulse again,
visible against the darkness.
The crickets, hushed by our belly-deep laughter,
rehearse a comeback song.

Then, slowly, night’s moon,
full of herself, as a grand gesture,
releases her pull just enough
so that we may find embrace in our dreams
until we meet again,
here on this wrap-around porch.

Tracy Chiles McGhee

 

Wrap-Around Porch appeared in Mary Jane Ryals Poetry Corner, Tallahasee Democrat, (August 25, 2010)

First published in Aspirations: Mosaic of Thoughts, 2nd Edition

(Althea Dixon, July 2010)

———————-

Do you have porch memories? What does the porch symbolize for you? Where do you gather for womanifesting?

 

And that’s A Wrap…

 

heatwave

How hot is it? When the sun woke up, he pumped up the AC! Ha!

So hot, there’s a song about it! Burning…Burning…

But wait a sec? Remember this….

Which do you prefer –extreme cold or extreme heat? Hmm….

To survive the heatwave — Stay cool, drink lots of water, and enjoy your favorite COLD treat.

(I know this advice is like when they say if you don’t have to drive in the blizzard stay home but just in case there is somebody that needs to hear it, it has been said.)

Now think cold!

 And that’s a wrap!

(Actually it’s too hot for a wrap.)

Peace out!

no arms, no legs, no worries

 

 

And that’s a wrap

lena horne: legendary entertainer (rip)

Lena Horne dies at 92; singer and civil rights activist who broke barriers

“I don’t have to be an imitation of a white woman that Hollywood sort of hoped I’d become.”

I’m me, and I’m like nobody else.

Lena Horne

Talent

“I made a promise to myself to be kinder to other people.”

Lena Horne

Beauty & Grace

“I’m not alone, I’m free. I no longer have to be a credit, I don’t have to be a symbol to anybody; I don’t have to be a first to anybody.”

Lena Horne

Wisdom

Rest peacefully, Ms. Horne, and thank you for sharing

your many gifts with us.

hands that keep: happy mother’s day

Hands That Keep

By Tracy Chiles McGhee

Alice Louise

These hands mark a righteous path.

So dainty, gentle, and dignified,
these hands are polished peach and slipped
into white silk gloves with tiny pearl buttons.
They are made for primpin’ in pretty dresses
and stylish suits with matching pumps and smart feathered hats.
These hands catch eyes and hold attention without too much red,
too much twist, or too much leg.
They press against the windows of trains that journey to new places
and clutch purses that hold dreams and “just in cases.”
While beholden hands lay bricks, these hands plant gardens that bloom lush.
And since down South these hands didn’t snap wild with juke joint crowds,
up north they don’t wave high, dance low, or scream loud.
They clap and toe-tap to the tune of a sanctified song
and find in a Baptist church reminders of a South Carolina home.

Mrs. Chiles

These hands welcome and extend.

So faithful, dutiful, and blessed,
these hands intertwine with strong, protective hands
and then rest easy on child-bearing hips.
Loving, sharing, building, and taking care of home
like nobody’s business,
making it clear that she is the Missus,
and this is her house on Beatrice Street,
and much respect is due and much respect is given,
the moment you step into the vestibule.
Come on in-these hands beckon
as you sit in a stately room that gives way to good times
that spill over into a bustling kitchen
where these hands stir and blend, chop and cut, bake and fry
and guests dine well, tell tall tales and testify.
And this is how it goes until the sun hugs the moon
or these tired hands wave good-bye.

Mama, Grandmama, and Great-grandmama

These hands hold tight and open wide.

So focused, proud, and persnickety,
these hands button and zip the suits of fussy boys
and press and curl the hair of fidgety girls
who wiggle into pink, ruffled dresses
careful not to mess up their ribbons and tresses.
These hands give reminders, sometimes subtle, sometimes not,
that we better hush up and sit still.
Sometimes we take heed or later wish we had but mostly
these hands comfort and spoil, encourage and give in times of need.
They help us grow into nice young ladies and respectful young men
and even when we fall short these hands tell us you still represent Chiles,
so wipe your eyes, hold your head high and act like you got good sense.

Sister Chiles

These hands uplift and pride themselves on fellowship.

So giving, willing, and hard-working,
these hands were made for serving the Lord
by her husband’s side and on her own accord.
In the front pews, these hands praise, pray, clap, and fan
and then nurse the sick and console the bereaved
before Sunday comes back around again.
Simply put, these hands are known for kindness and
pitching in without complaint and setting an example
of what it means to be an outstanding servant, mother and wife
so that you might be blessed with a long, fruitful and satisfied life.

Our Hands

These hands draw in and reach out.

They are creative and bold, loyal and strong.
But most of all, these hands are eternally grateful for the beautiful hands
that keep them planted in God’s hands.

————————

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

And That’s a Wrap