Grandpa and Grandma's Hands

                                                                       Grandpa and Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. They didn’t move, just sat with they’re head down staring at they’re hands. When I sat down beside them they didn’t acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat, I wondered if they were OK.

Finally,  not  really wanting to disturb them but wanting to check on them at the same time, I asked  them if they were OK.  Grandpa raised his head and looked at me and smiled.
“Yes, we’re fine. Thank you for asking,” he said in a clear strong voice.  


“I  didn’t mean to  disturb you, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make  sure you were OK,” I explained.
“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 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 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 trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and walked my daughter down the aisle.
• 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 and grandma’s hands and led them home.

When my hands are hurt or sore, I think of Grandpa and Grandma. I know they have 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. 

  “IN GOD WE TRUST”

August 2012