God's Hands

Aside from family, the two gentlemen from the funeral home were the first people we saw after my mom died (they had been called by the hospice nurse which was the first call we made).

These two men—who came because their job was to remove a body from our home—came dressed in suits and beautiful, tailored, wool winter coats (it’s interesting the things you notice). They were somber and quiet. They didn’t rush in, pack up the body and leave because they had somewhere better to be. In fact, while they did indeed arrive in a hearse, they didn’t bring anything in the house with them to indicate why they were there. Instead, these kind men greeted the family, asked about my mom and shared their sincere condolences.

After making sure that we were indeed ready to have them take my mom, these men returned with a gurney and a body bag (which wasn’t black, by the way). My mom had been in a room attached to our living room, separated by French doors. Most of the family stood outside of the room and watched while these men worked.

For some reason, I watched their hands as they worked. Before moving my mom, they wrapped her in a clean, white sheet. Ever so carefully, they tucked one side of the sheet under my mom. While talking to my brother—who was in the room with them—they carefully slid the sheet between my mom and the blankets she had been under. Gently they rolled it under her, wrapped the blanket around her and moved her to the gurney. Not once were they rough with my mom’s body. They didn’t throw the blankets off—it would have made everything easier, but would have also exposed her—and they didn’t toss her onto the gurney. Instead, their hands were so gentle. They were God’s hands.

(By the way, thank you all so much for your kind words. This is such an amazing community to be a part of.)