When the whole church kneels to pray br - though some of us just pretend to kneel: br leaning forward uncomfortably, br our ungainly bums only observed br by the row in the pew behind – br br the lady next to me does it in style, br yet with observable humility: br she was taught to kneel, I guess, in br Sunday School when she was five or less, br and about seventy years later, br here’s devotion's lifetime posture still: br br erect, elbows on the pew’s bookshelf, br so that her hands together point straight, br let’s say, to heaven; counterpointed br by the head a little lowered in humility; br br and I study, discreetly, these praying hands, br subtly shaded by a lifetime br in rose, white, grey, yellow, brown, red, blue; br here smooth, here barely covering bone, br here worn, here wrinkled; br br the rest of her, devout; an innerness br which I can only guess at br in her lifetime stance; but these hands br with their lifetime of a woman’s work br have, this Sunday morning, offered up br their mighty selves unto their maker God.. br br When my mother’s dressed for Sunday br she’s a stranger to the child in me: br dressed in matching hat, gloves, handbag, shoes; br not for the public eye or anyone’s approval, br but as the public dresses for its God; br br and I glance at these hands, which speak to me br of prayer, of life, that's way beyond my childish mind; br these stranger hands, with more things yet untold br than I would know or dare to ask of her.