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This is good; I'll never look at my hands the same!
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He
didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I
sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I
sat I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb
him
but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK.
He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank
you for asking," he said in a clear strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here
staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I
explained to him.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," he 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 he was making. Grand pa
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 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 ***** and pulled on my boots.
They have been dirty, s****ed 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 trembled and shook when I buried my Parents and Spouse and walked
my Daughter down the aisle.
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 my
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 Grandpa's hands and led him home.
When my hands are hurt or sore I think of Grandpa. I know he 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.
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He
didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I
sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I
sat I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb
him
but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK.
He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank
you for asking," he said in a clear strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here
staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I
explained to him.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," he 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 he was making. Grand pa
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 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 ***** and pulled on my boots.
They have been dirty, s****ed 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 trembled and shook when I buried my Parents and Spouse and walked
my Daughter down the aisle.
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 my
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 Grandpa's hands and led him home.
When my hands are hurt or sore I think of Grandpa. I know he 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.
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