Grandma's Hands

GRANDMA'S HANDS

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.

She didn't move, just sat with her headdown 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.

'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 stareddown at them. I turned them over,

palms up and then palms down. No, I guess Ihad 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 Christ.'

I never looked 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.

When you read this, say a prayer for the
person who sent it to you.

Let's continue praying for one another. Sharing this with anyone you consider
a friend will bless you both. Passing this on to one not yet considered
a friend is something Christ would do.

-- Author Unknown