A Mother’s arms are safe, a place where her child is cuddled, and comforted by the
beating of her heart. Her child knows her embrace so well,
that no other arms can soothe, no other arms can replace them when he is upset.
Her arms clean and bathe him, and rock him when he is sick.
They tuck him into bed at night with a kiss, her soft touch tenderly saying,
“You’re okay little one, angels watch over you while you sleep, and all is well.
As a toddler, her arms put him in his first car seat, and steady him when he takes
his first steps.
They walk hand in hand with him to the playground, push him on the swing,
catch him on the slide, and patch him up when he skins his knee.
Her hands shake a finger at him when he does wrong, the same hands that
adjust his backpack for his first day at school.
They turn the pages of his storybooks, wipe his nose and tears, and wave and clap when
he gets his first hit, his first score, or plays at his first recital.
Her hands pray for him each night, wrap presents for his birthdays as the
years go by, and make his scrapbook before he graduates.
She waves goodbye when he goes off to college or to war, brushing away her tears,
and faithfully writes letters of encouragement and love.
A Mother’s arms send care packages to faraway places,
and welcome him home with hugs of joy.
A Mother’s arms shape the world.
