Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.
She didn't move, just sat with her head down, staring at her hands.
When I sat down beside her, she didn't acknowledge my presence,
and the longer I sat, I wondered if she was OK. Finally, not really
wanting to disturb her, but, wanting to check on her at the same time,
I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head and looked at me
and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she said in a clear
strong voice. "I didn't mean to disturb you, grandma, but, you were
just sitting there staring at your hands, and I wanted to make sure you
were OK," I explained to her. "Have you ever looked at your hands,"
she asked. "I mean, really looked at your hands?" I slowly opened
my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and
then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands.
As I tried to figure out the point she was making, grandma smiled and
related this story: "Stop and think for a moment, about the hands you
have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These
hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have
used all my life, to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced
and caught my fall, when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They
put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother
taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on
my boots. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went
off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
Decorated with my wedding band, they showed the world that I was
married and loved someone special. They wrote my letters to him
and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse.
They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors,
and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have
covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest
of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried
and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me
works, these hands are the mark of where I've been and the
ruggedness of life. But more importantly, it will be these hands that
God will reach out and take, when He leads me home. And with my
hands, He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch
the face of Christ." I will never look at my hands the same again.
But, I remember God reached out and took my grandma's hands and
led her home. When my hands are hurt or sore, or when I stroke the
faces of my children and husband, I think of grandma. I know she has
been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want
to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.
Author Unknown
