> Grandpa's Hands
> 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 dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my
life. 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
> 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 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.
>
>
>Author Unknow
>