"Hands"
>>
>> An old man, probably some ninety plus years, sat feebly on
>>the park
>> 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, sir, 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 making. Then
>>he 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 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 He won't care about
>>where these
>> hands have been or what they have done.
>>
>> What He will care about is to whom these hands belong and
>>how much He
>> loves these hands. And with these hands He will lift me to
>>His side and
>> there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ. No
>>doubt I
>> will never look at my hands the same again. I never saw the
>>old man
>> again after I left the park that day but I will never forget
>>him and the
>> words he spoke.
>>
>> When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of
>>my children
>> and wife I think of the man in the park.
>>
>> I have a feeling 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.
>>
>> Thank you, Father God, for hands.

Unknown Author

John,
This was a powerful story!! I too will never look at my hands the same way.

Thank you for sharing this precious story