If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?

Hear the jesting words of Milton Berle, a master of wit, who once asked with humor: “If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?” Though spoken in lightness, the saying bears within it the weight of truth, for all humor hides wisdom like a jewel in clay. Berle reminds us that the labor of the mother is so great, her responsibilities so many, that two hands seem too few for the tasks laid upon her. It is as though nature itself, in all its unfolding, has underestimated the sheer strength and sacrifice required of motherhood.

The ancients often spoke of gods and goddesses with many hands, each arm holding a tool or a weapon, symbolizing their vast power. In the East, deities such as Durga or Avalokiteshvara are pictured with countless hands, able to protect, to bless, to serve in every direction at once. And is not the mother, in her mortal way, the same? She cooks, she heals, she comforts, she defends, she guides, she carries burdens seen and unseen—all at once, with only two humble hands. Berle’s jest, then, becomes a truth: if life had designed with perfect foresight, surely the mother would have been given the arms of a goddess.

History itself gives us examples of such superhuman devotion. Consider Susanna Wesley, mother of John and Charles Wesley, founders of Methodism. She bore nineteen children, though only ten survived, and still she found time to teach each child individually, to manage a household in hardship, and to guide her sons into greatness. With her two hands, she tilled the soil of their hearts, shaping men who would alter the course of faith across nations. Though mortal, she worked with the strength of many.

So too in times of war we see this truth. In the bombed cities of Europe during the Second World War, countless mothers not only shielded their children but scavenged for food, worked in factories, and mended broken lives—all with the same two hands that once rocked a cradle. They became builders, teachers, and warriors, proving that the strength of motherhood is not limited by flesh, but multiplied by love. Though Berle laughs, the wisdom is clear: two hands suffice, because a mother’s heart supplies the strength of twenty.

The meaning of the quote stretches beyond humor into reverence. It is a recognition of the impossible labors that mothers undertake, and the seeming unfairness that nature gave them no extra tools for such divine responsibility. Yet therein lies the marvel: that with only two hands, mothers accomplish miracles daily. They hold the world together, unseen and unsung, their work woven into the fabric of every life.

The lesson is this: never underestimate the power of a mother’s hands. They may appear ordinary, but they have wiped away countless tears, lifted the fallen, prepared meals from nothing, and carried burdens heavier than stone. To children, honor those hands—see in them the story of your life. To all people, support and cherish the labor of mothers, for their strength is not infinite, and yet they give as if it were.

Practical action follows easily. Offer gratitude to your mother for all that her two hands have done. If you are a parent yourself, know that you need not have more arms than you were given; instead, let love multiply the strength of the ones you have. And as a community, seek to share the burden, that no mother need feel alone in her labors. In doing so, you honor the sacred truth hidden within Berle’s laughter.

Thus let the saying endure: “If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?” For in jest, it reminds us of the heroic nature of motherhood—that with only two simple hands, mothers have built civilizations, raised leaders, comforted the broken, and held the world together. Truly, two hands in love are greater than a thousand hands without it.