“Mom, can you open it?” My daughter held out a container of mandarin oranges to me from across the kitchen counter.

“Sure,” I answered, peeling back the cover and tossing it the trash can in one seamless motion—just as my toddler padded into the kitchen clutching a bag filled with puzzle pieces. “Can you do puzzoo with me?”

As I sat helping sort edge pieces from middles, I couldn’t help but notice: my hands are always moving.

Even though it’s true what they say—moms so often carry the mental load of a family—a mother’s hands also carry an awful lot of the physical load, too.

When diapers need changing, it’s my hands maneuvering wipes and wiggly bottoms.

When crusts need cutting, my hands use the butter knife to make precise slices and distribute them on kid plates.

When scraped knees need tending, it’s my hands peeling Band-Aid wrappers and placing them just so.

When crumbs need sweeping, my hands uncoil the cord and push the vacuum across the floor yet again.

When cups need reaching, my hands open cupboard doors and fill sippy cups and water glasses at the sink.

When errands need running, it’s my hands turning the key in the ignition and crossing off items from the never-ending shopping list.

When hair needs brushing, my hands flick water on the stubborn cowlick that won’t be tamed and twist fine strands into ponytails and braids.

When tears need drying, it’s my hands wiping drops from cheeks and holding tissues to tiny noses.

When hearts need mending, my hands encircle little bodies, patting small backs and smoothing wispy tendrils of hair.

My hands are busy and yes, they are full.

But just like my heart, these helping hands are full of gratitude for God-given purpose like this.

Originally published on Assignment: Mom