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 strong 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 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 dried the tears of my children and caressed the
love of my life. They wiped my tears when my husband
went off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and
raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy
when I tried to hold our newborn daughter. 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.

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 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.