Always for Mother

She would direct the blade through each apple slice,
Towards her calloused thumb.
I admired her peace with the blade.

My earliest memory of Mom is contrast;
Me sitting on the counter, ready to sift the flour,
gazing at apple, blade, and calloused thumb.

When I was young, I didn’t realize the gift of her grace and care.
I assumed her calloused hands were made to caress her little boy.

Later I saw the miracle of it all.
Her ability to give love she had not received,
To give care she had yearned for but not known.

My God,
How did you form my Mother?
How did you make something so beautiful,
Out of so much pain?

I was born into a miracle,
Nurtured by grace.

Every once and awhile I find myself sitting on that counter.
Just a little boy, waiting to sift the flour,
Looking at my mother, paring the apples, preparing the dough.

I realize it was always a miracle.
A miracle that God took my broken little girl Mother,
and turned her into my grace gift with calloused thumbs.