Christmas cards always enlightened my days as a kid...especially if my name was on the envelope and impressively if my name was spelled correctly on the envelope. Mom had a ceramic Santa whose large green toy bag was opened to hold all of our cards, and I carefully stacked them according to size day after day as they would arrive. My favorite card always came from Mrs. Cohenour, my childhood art teacher. While other cards displayed humble images of a quiet manger, joyful children romping in the snow, Jolly St. Nick wiggling his nose, and Christmas trees being dragged across a snow laden field to a country home, Mrs. Cohenour's card always displayed a worldly piece of Christmas art from the Met in New York City. Long after my days of washing her brushes and filling the classroom kiln, I still receive my holiday greeting from Mrs. Cohenour, and I cherish each one a little bit more every year.While the art displayed on Mrs. Cohenour's cards is from the hands of masters, the art displayed on my card this year is of the hands that raised me. Very rarely do I slow down long enough to take pictures of my life, but back in the fall, I simply asked Mom to sit down and play. I told her she didn't even have to smile, and I snapped this picture. In the time that it took for the flash to fire, I managed to take a picture that really needs no caption.
When I was in middle school, Mom's piano students started filing in and out of our home as she carefully guided their little fingers to play. Carefully, I listened as she encouraged each of them to make a joyful noise unto the Lord with every stroke of a key. As the holidays rolled around, she'd review her record books and order small statues of the great composers for each child. She kept a running list of which students had acquired what masters. To this day, I am convinced Cindy Collins Code must have the largest collection. The statues would arrive from the distributor, and Mom would wrap Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and friends with love in each detail of the pretty paper and bows. I'm now a middle school teacher instead of a student, and the great composers still arrive at Mom's house each holiday season as she assigns each a new home during the holidays.
This picture isn't just about piano lessons though. Those are the hands that raised me. You should put your hands together and aplaud her massive undertaking and success. Those hands hugged me, brushed my hair, tied my shoes, fluffed my dresses, tucked me in, and busted my butt. Those hands taught me how to count, read, write, and pray. Those hands checked my temperature, drove me to Clancy's, made me chicken and dumplin's and led me carefully through all the wonder that a child's life offers. Those are my momma's hands, and they've patted the head of at least a thousand students who passed in and out of her classroom doors through the years, too.
To be her daughter is my life's greatest blessing, and I should have thought to capture this moment long before now. Playing the piano fills her soul with joy like nothing else. After all the papers are graded, Sunday's music is practiced, the piano students are gone, and life falls quiet on the hill....listen very carefully on your porches. Not only should you listen for Santa and his sleigh....you should listen for my momma to play, "When They Ring Those Golden Bells."
Merry Christmas!
