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 alright. 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.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that
I was married and loved someone special.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my
newborn son.
They wrote the letters home, 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.
