Gently, I opened the door to a scene i wish i would have had the foresight to video.  Her back to me, there she sat. Thin silver hair on a head that was bowed forward to read from a book i was sure she could quote complete excerpts from.  She found comfort in it’s pages and familiarity in its words.  Before she could see me I asked “what are you reading this morning Mamaw?”  “Oh sweetheart, I’ve just finished the Proverbs and now reading in the Psalms.”

She always causes me to Unbecome.  Something about being in her presence brings me back to the core of who I am.

She is most like Jesus.  I can barely hold back the tears.  Not because i am shaken by her deteriorating health, but rather inspired by her wholeness.  At age 83, she defines a rare beauty that all of the magazine covers in the world fail to scratch the surface of.  She is WOMAN.  Full of faith, wisdom, grace, strength, joy, peace, stability, determination, style, modesty, and love.  All of my life I have watched her serve.  Serving is beautiful.  We are at our best when we are serving.

I sat there beside her for hours, holding tight to her hand.  Hands that made the cakes which provided the aroma of Holidays past.  Hands that ironed the linens (and i wear out the fluff cycle on my dryer) to the beds traveling evangelists would find rest on.  Hands that worked before “women roared” fashioning the window scapes of her very own clothing store.  Hands that were always open to give Hallelujahs to her true love.  Hands that served countless men and women and children at the SAME church for over 62 years.  Hands intertwined between the strong hands of her husband of 67 years.  Her hands are freckled with years and every wrinkle tells a story.

I am loving her story.

I see myself there.  Trust me, i wouldn’t begin to flatter myself or you into thinking I am half the woman she is.  I just find myself in the pages of her.  I am her legacy.  Without her, there is no me.  She serves me a call i can digest and find longevity in.  A call that beckons me, for every time i get distracted with the load, to warm my heart by the fires of original intent.  Like my Grandmother, I find my purpose in serving.  My King, his kingdom, my family, my friends, my enemy.  I could write a book on what that doesn’t mean, but for the sacred tone of this post, i will refrain.   I can only pray that these veiny, short, strong hands of mine, someday tell a story similar to hers.  If they do, i will have Unbecome very well.

Whose hands hold your story?  Maybe it is someone who is at the root of your family tree.  Maybe it is someone who is a carrier of your spiritual heritage.  Whomever it is, i encourage you to create space in your schedule to hold these hands close and quiet the noise long enough to observe and listen.  You may learn more about yourself and your Unbecoming than you ever dreamed.

Xoxo,

Steph