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 friend's 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.
David