Mother's Hands
JUST WHEN IT HAPPENED I do not know.
Maybe fifty years ago, maybe a hundred. It really doesn't
matter. The story was old when I was a boy and that's quite
some time ago now. I tell it again because you will love it, too.
A sweet young mother, having laid her baby girl to sleep
in her cradle, went down the street to visit a neighbor. She
had often left her baby before, just for a few minutes, and
there had been no trouble; so she had no doubt that all would
be well now.
Arriving at the neighbor's house, she began to chat about
this and that, but was suddenly interrupted by a sound that
always sent a chill through her, the city fire alarm.
"Don't worry," said the neighbor. "Most likely it's only a
grass fire. There are lots of them at this time of year."
But the alarm sounded again and again.
"It must be serious," said the mother.
"Oh, don't bother," said the neighbor. "I'm sure the fire
isn't anywhere near here."
"But listen!" said the mother. "I can hear the fire engine,
and it is coming this way. And look! See the people running
They are running down this street. They are running toward
my house!"
Without another word she dashed into the street and ran
with the gathering crowd.
Then she saw it. Her own house was on fire! Smoke and
flames were' already pouring through the roof.
"My baby!" she cried frantically. "My baby!"
The crowd was thick around the house, but like one gone
mad she pushed and tore her way through.
"My baby! My baby! My little Margie!"
A fireman seized her.
"You can't go!" he cried. "You will be burned to death."
"Let me go! Let me go!" she cried, breaking free and dashing
into the flaming house.
She knew just where to go. Running through the smoke
and flames, she seized her precious baby, then turned to
make her way out. But, overcome by the smoke, she swayed
and fell, and would have burned to death with her baby had
not a fireman seized her and carried her out.
What a cheer went up as they appeared! But alas, though
the baby was saved unharmed, the poor mother was badly
hurt. Kind friends put her in an ambulance and hurried her
off to the hospital. There it was found that her hands, the
brave, dear hands that had lifted her baby from the blazing
crib, were terribly burned. All their beauty, of which she had been so proud, was gone. Though the doctors did their best to
save them, they were left marred and crippled.
Months later the brave mother was released from the hospital.
She and her baby were together again in a new home.
Weeks became months, and months became years. The
baby toddled, walked, ran. She was no longer a baby; she was
a little girl. She was beginning to notice things.
One day when Marjorie was eight years old, her mother
was washing dishes in the kitchen sink.
Suddenly Marjorie saw something that she had always
seen but never noticed before.
"Mother," she exclaimed, "what ugly hands you have!"
"Yes, dear," said Mother quietly, though hurt almost
beyond words. "They are ugly, aren't they?"
"But why do you have ugly hands when other people have
pretty hands?" said Marjorie, not knowing how every word
was like a dagger in Mother's heart.
Tears filled Mother's eyes.
"Oh!—what have I done wrong?" asked Marjorie.
Then Mother took Marjorie's hand and led her to the davenport.
"There's something I must tell you, dear," she said.
Then she told her story, as Marjorie had never understood
it before. She told of the fire, of the people who tried
to hold her back, of the wild dash into the burning house,
how she lifted the baby from the naming crib, how she fell,how she was rescued, and how badly she had been burned.
"My hands were beautiful till then," she said.
Marjorie clasped the crooked hands in hers, tears streaming
down her cheeks. "Mother dear," she cried, "they are the
most beautiful hands in all the world!"
Children, there are other hands that were wounded for
you. The hands of Jesus, the children's Friend and Saviour;
the hands of Him who came down from heaven to rescue His
people from sin and save them in His beautiful kingdom.
You know what happened to Jesus. Evil men drove great
nails through His hands and hung Him on a cross to die.
Then they buried Him in Joseph's new tomb. But they
couldn't keep Him there. He rose again and ascended to
heaven, where He lives today, waiting for the glad day when
He shall return.
The marks of the nails are still there. When He comes
back they will still be there. We shall know Him then "by the
print of the nails in His hands."
Those nailmarks will be there through all eternity. As
you meet Him in the New Jerusalem or in the lovely new
earth, you will know that those hands, those dear, dear hands
of Jesus, were marred that you might be
saved. And when you say to Him, "What happened
to Your hands?" He will tell you the
wonderful story of salvation over and over
again. Then, with little Marjorie, you will
exclaim, "They are the most beautiful hands
in all the world!"
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