Fold Your Hands — from Coffee + Crumbs

Thin fingers interlaced, wedding band hard against my soft skin, I’m folding my hands again. Sitting in the passenger seat of the car, I purposely press my palms into one another. I feel the strength in my arms and appreciate the angles of my wrists. I relax and look down to my lap. These are my mother’s hands. When did that happen?

I’ve been finding my hands folded more and more often when we drive together lately. I feel almost regal.


We are one of those families who prays before meals and before bed. I’ve said “Fold Your Hands” at least nine million times. (Four times a day x three kids x almost ten years = somewhere around nine million.)

Still, my kids forget. At least one of them needs a reminder (or three) at every single meal.

In addition to instilling a physical act to accompany the practice of prayer, folding their hands gives those body parts a job to do (even for the shortest of Graces).

Do not eat.
Do not poke.
Do not stick forks in your nose while we pray.

As a child, I was told to fold my hands, too, so in the middle of this busy life, finding my hands folded surprises me.


Because everyone within earshot liked to say, “It’ll change” if I happened to mention we were in a good rhythm, place, or schedule with our baby, I knew it wouldn’t last. But for three months after the birth of our first child, when she started sleeping in 4 hour chunks, we had a routine.

Each evening, my husband fed her while I pumped. Liquid Gold sealed and stored in the refrigerator for the following night’s bottle, I’d run to the bathroom and brush my teeth with a giddiness over what was coming next…


…….To read the rest on Coffee+Crumbs, click here.

{From Coffee+Crumbs / July 29, 2016}

Sonya Spillmann

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