Grandma's Hands
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 voice strong....
'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 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 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 God.'
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 face 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.
Treat everyone with politeness, even those who are rude to you
-- not because they are nice, But because you are.
