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 here 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 the following
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 real well;
these hands hold me up, lay me down,
and again continue to fold in prayer.
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. "
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 face
of my children and husband I think of
Grandma.
I know she has been held by the hands of
God.
And I, too, want to touch the face of
God
and feel His hands upon my face.
-Author
unknown
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