these hands

[Collette Darden <csdarden@xxxxxxxxxxx>]

> 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. Grandpa
> 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 rifle and wiped my tears when I 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 the letters home and trembled and shook when I 
> buried my parents and spouse and walked my daughter down the aisle.
> Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and 
> lifted a plow off of my best friends foot. They have held children, 
> 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 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 or when I stroke the face of my children and wife 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.