The Hands of Home

          The wind was brisk as she hurried to the shed. Her boots crunched in the snow and her toes screamed in protest to the missing lining. She wrapped her thin scarf around her face, covering her nose. Maybe this would keep the sub-zero temperature from burning in her throat and nostrils. 
          

          Rushing around the corner, the shed shielded her from the angry gust that seemed to utter "not to worry, I will be here when you return!"

       
          She grasped the handle and pulled as if her life depended on getting that old door to relent. Perhaps her life did depend on it. Hers and her sweet, young children waiting in the rented house a few yards away. They would wake soon.
          
          She stood still for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The shed smelled of old grass and gasoline. It smelled like love to her. She inhaled and sensed the arms of her daddy holding her close.
         
          The wind whistled her back to reality. She reached down and began piling wood in her outstretched arm. Soon she would have a happy, cozy fire singing as it snapped and danced a show of white, yellow, and orange flames. Just the thought warmed her soul.
       
          She took one more deep breath of comfort before heading toward the house. Glancing east she was overwhelmed by the wonder of the sun, peaking up over the horizon like a gigantic, beautifully shy flower. Only God could create such splendor in the dead of winter.
       
          The light above the door beckoned her to hurry, promising the refuge of home. She knew it was borrowed along with almost everything inside. Yet it was truly home. The screen door softly whispered the message of spring, assuring one day fragrant breezes would blow through its tiny, square windows.
   
            Moments later a fire sent its invisible arms rolling outward like an octopus reaching for company. She poured oatmeal into boiling water. Soon her children would be warmed inside and out.
   
           She heard the shuffling of little slippered feet moving down the hall. She turned to see sweet faces wrapped in hair askew, little pink cheeks wearing good morning smiles  and eyes that sparkled with the happiness of a new day. 
            
          "Good morning, Sunshine!" Momma smiled.
         
           This is home. Little ones gathered, snuggled up to the fire and bathed in its warmth while the aroma of oatmeal, cinnamon, and coffee filled the air. Home is right here, wrapped in a blanket framed in tattered satin trim.
       
           "It's shivery," squeaked the younger.
     
           "Is shivery a word?" asked the older as she held mommas hand and played with her ring, turning it around and around.
   
            Momma's voice laughed, "Yes, shivery is a word."
 
            "Well, your hands are warmery!" giggled the older, "and they are the prettiest hands ever in the whole wide world!" Using her own chubby little hand, she traced mommas fingers, "Someday, I hope my hands look just like yours!"
   
             With growling tummies the girls reached for their bowls, now full of steaming hot home. 

    

             Today will be filled with Golden books, homemade paste, a shared pair of scissors and catalogues that have arrived in the mail. There will be songs of the Muffin Man and tea pots followed by games of pat-a- cake and eye spy.

     

         This is the beginning of a story of fiction, sprinkled with truth from my childhood. And I am happy to say, there are many days my hands look just like hers.

Above all, put on love--the perfect bond of unity. Colossians 3:14