"Give her the fruit of her hands..."

Praise for my mother for her steadfast devotion to the Lord, her husband, her mountain heritage and land, her family and her church cannot be exaggerated. She is my prime example of godly womanhood in all its facets of beauty, wisdom and grace. She has passed her passion for life, for literature, for learning down to her children. We but follow feebly in her firm footsteps that always lead us to the foot of the Throne where our strong and kind Savior sits to chide, forgive and bless. Every nuance of every gift and grace I possess, I account to my mother's nurturing. This little poem is but a poor tribute to her blessings in my life and the lives of thousands of others with whom she has come in contact during the past 81 years. May God continue to bless you, dearest Mama.

The Fruit of Her Hands

"Give her the fruit of her hands and let her works

praise her in the gates." Prov. 31:31

My mother's roots wrap mine

in pithy strength,

fending off

the August drought

and creeping blight,

the canker worms

who fear her light and

crawl back to their hollow darkness,

cowering.

Her blue eyes see

clear down

through all my muddiness

to clumps that

clog my springs of joy;

and on her knees,

with both hand tugging,

she sees it right again.

With both hands open,

scattering seeds,

she feeds us full

to overflowing.

No friend nor stranger

passes from her door

with needs denied.

Her briars kept clipped,

she harms no beast nor bird,

but, ever abiding,

props the weaker limbs

with grace,

distilling

healing dew

at pruning time.

Rebecca Belcher Morecraft

from, Roots & Vines

1999