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 m outh 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 stick y 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. 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.


-- Author Unknown