I never noticed how many hands were on display until after I lost my mother-in-law, Loray, a few years ago. You see, she was an occupational therapist who specialized in hand therapy at Shriner's Hospital.

Plagued with pain from a lifetime of arthritis herself, she reached out to children with mobility issues and helped them learn to use their broken and hurting hands.

Once, when I was trying to decide what to get her for her birthday, I spied a porcelain glove form at an antique store. It was shiny and white and stood upright on what resembled a cylindrical forearm. I wasn't sure it was a proper gift, so I walked away. Then ... I went back and talked myself out of my doubt and up to the counter with the hand in hand.

"How did you know?" she gasped as she pulled it through tufts of colored tissue.

"I know hands are important to you and I hoped you'd like it, but it sounds like there's more to this than I realized."

She showed me another glove form and explained that the wife of a colleague of hers had given it to her as a gift. She was touched by the gesture and had kept her eyes open for another but hadn't seen one since. Thus began a quest for glove forms in addition to the multitude of other hand-shaped items she owned, including cookie cutters, glassware and jewelry. My sister-in-law once brought home a candle that was the shape of a witch's hand. Each of the green, pointy fingers had a wick. I will never forget Loray's laughter at the sight.

Another time we took Loray to see Chuck Berry at Blueberry Hill. After the show, we all lined up with photos and albums for autographs — all except Loray. She had brought along a hinged wooden hand. After a double-take and a chuckle, Chuck signed it. It's been three years since she passed, and now hardly a week goes by that I don't notice a hand on display as I make my rounds. Though I get misty at the unexpected sight of a glass or metal hand, I'm glad for the trip down memory lane.

Last week I added a new memory jogger into my subconscious. It's the letter "Y."

About two months ago our oldest daughter's boyfriend, Brian, asked Mike's and my permission to marry her. I don't know that it's for us to choose, but if we could, I can't imagine a better match for Amanda. I also appreciated the respect he demonstrated for us and his desire to connect with her family. He filled us in on his plans for the proposal and asked us to help him carry it out.

We were to meet up with his parents at the church where he and our daughter met. He and Amanda would be returning from a church retreat in Tennessee on her birthday and arrive to a poster message that we would be holding, asking her to marry him.

When Mike and I arrived with the rest of our kids, along with my sister and her family (who had been alerted by our future son-in-law), we were met by his parents and 50 or so other church members arriving to pick up their kids from the bus.

The next thing I knew, I was handed poster number 14 and sent to stand on a sidewalk alongside my husband, children, sister, nieces, brother-in-law, church friends and strangers. I looked at the poster with a huge letter "Y" on the front and another on the back.

As the bus pulled in, the driver turned on the dome lights and I watched weary travelers recharge and move quickly from their seats to surround my daughter.

She smiled through the window as we held up signs that read, "Happy birthday, Amanda!"

She gasped when we flipped the signs to read, "Will you marry me?"

I watched over the sign as he knelt before her and offered her a ring. I knew she said "yes" from the cheers on the bus. They stepped through the door onto the parking lot, and I heard the man to my left with a blank sided poster ask, "Who's her mom?"

I snapped out of my stupor and strode forward to embrace her. Wrapping her in my arms, I soaked in this precious moment with my little girl. Slowly we moved apart, and she extended her newly adorned hand. Loray would approve.

Kim Dailey, of Columbia, is a wife, mother of five and special education teacher in south St. Louis County who relies on her faith and sense of humor to survive in this crazy world. In her free time she soaks it in, sorts it out and writes about life.

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