I remember my Momma’s hands when I was a little girl. They were strong with long slim fingers. Those were the hands that picked me up gently and cuddled me when I needed comfort. I remember Momma’s hands squeezing mine to show me her love. I can see her holding a pen and writing in that beautiful penmanship, of which she was so proud; or sitting at a typewriter punching out words faster than I can speak. Her hands didn’t do much needlework, but they could hammer nails in planks or re-wire an electrical outlet.

Her beautiful hands didn’t hold up well with age. Momma had both osteoarthritis and rheumatoid arthritis. With old age, her hands gnarled and shriveled until they resembled a bird’s claws. That sure did slow her down with a lot of things, though she tried not to let it. “Stoic” is a good word to describe my Momma.

Momma was in her seventies, when she told me one day that she “needed” a computer. She said, “I want to write my memoirs before I forget what happened. I want to be able to e-mail you. And, I need to keep track of my inventory.”

I wasn’t exactly sure of her need for a computer. Momma’s “inventory” was the junk treasure that she had accumulated to sell at flea markets and garage sales. I didn’t see that it warranted a computer. She wanted to e-mail me because she was too cheap to call me on the phone. I did, however, like the idea of her writing down her stories. Hiding my amusement at the thought of a little old lady learning how to use the computer, I brought one home to her.

I showed Momma how to use Word, and set up an e-mail account for her. I taught her how to open that account and send and receive e-mails. Watching her was difficult for me, because her poor crippled hands could barely hit the keys. This woman, who once had won awards for her typing skills, had to struggle to type every word. Every keystroke cost her great pain. But, she kept after it.

Every morning when I opened my e-mail, I would find a note from Momma. They were always very short, but I knew how hard she had worked to type them, and how painful it was for her.

“Hi Honey! I miss you. That squirrel is on my back porch again. Got a ripe tomato, and the purple irises are blooming. I love you. Mom”

That’s about all they ever said.

One day, I opened my e-mail and discovered an extremely long e-mail from my mother! I was pretty surprised by that, and then chagrined when I found out what had happened. She had gotten one of those forwarded e-mails that she wanted to share with me.

“Hi Honey! I got this from my friend and thought it was a story you might want to share with the kids at schools. I think people probably need to hear it. I sat up last night and typed it out for you. I don’t sleep too well anyway. Love you. Mom.

I sat and cried when I realized that I had not shown my Momma how to forward e-mails. I had not taught her how to cut and paste. Her crippled hands had re-typed every word, though she must have endured great pain to do it. She thought people needed to hear that story.

If my Momma thought people needed to hear it, I need to pass it on, don’t I? And you need to read it. You might have seen it being passed around in e-mails years ago, but it’s worth a second read.

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There was a man who was known throughout the county for his carpentry. The homes he built were distinctive in style;they were made with the finest materials and excellent workmanship. Every nail he hammered was hammered straight and true.

As a result of his skills, everyone in the countryside wanted a home built by this man. That meant that he had a lot of work, which was good. All the work meant plenty of money. His life was good, and he provided well for his family. However, this carpenter worked all the time. Work took him away from his family in the evenings and even Saturdays and Sundays.

Years passed. The carpenter’s children grew up and had families of their own. Still that carpenter kept working, and rarely was around the house. One Sunday, he came home for supper. His children and grandchildren were gathered at the table. His youngest grandchild didn’t even know that he was “Grandpa!”

In that moment, the carpenter realized he had made a huge mistake by neglecting his family for his work. He thought of all the ball games, picnics, and graduations he had missed. He considered the small moments of every day life that had passed him by.

The next day, he went to the contractor for whom he worked and said, “I quit. I’ve built my last house. I want to retire and spend time with my family.”

The contractor said, “You can’t do that! I need you! We have a lot of houses to build.”

But, the carpenter was firm. “No,” he said. “My family needs me more. I quit.”

The contractor said, “I understand where you are coming from, but I need you to do me a favor. I want you to build me one last house. Please. Do this in honor of all our years of partnership.”

The contractor was very convincing, and at last the carpenter agreed. He went to work building his final house, but his heart was not in the task. He couldn’t concentrate. He was looking forward to his retirement, and spending time with his family.

The carpenter didn’t pay much attention to his work. When the right materials weren’t available, he substituted cheaper material. His work was shoddy. As a result, this house was not a testament to his artistry. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get finished and get on with his retirement.

When the work was complete, the contractor and the carpenter toured the house for a final inspection. They stepped outside the house and locked the door. The contractor turned to the carpenter with a huge grin on his face and proudly handed him the key to the house, saying, “This house is yours. I wanted to build it for you as my gift for all your years of hard work.”

Now, don’t you think that carpenter might have done a better job of building, if he had known he was building his own house?

We are all “carpenters.” Every day, we “build our own houses”: the lives in which we live. Slow down. Pay attention to details. Make sure every nail you hammer is hammered straight and true.

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That’s what my momma wanted you to know.

My momma didn’t get very far in writing her memoirs, though we have a few stories she wrote on the computer. Momma had cancer, and it metastasized in her brain. If you think about it, pass this story on to someone you think needs to hear it. Do that in honor of my Momma, won’t you? She’d have done it for you.

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