Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio
bench.. She didn’t
move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands.
When I sat down beside her she didn’t acknowledge my
presence and the
longer
I sat I wondered if she was OK.
Finally, not really wanting
to disturb her but wanting to check on her at
the same time, I asked her if
she was OK. She raised her head and looked at
me and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m
fine, thank you for asking,’ she said in a clear
voice strong.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just
sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,’
I explained to her.
‘Have you ever looked at your hands,’ she 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 she was
making.
Grandma 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 husband and wiped my tears when
he 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 my letters to him and trembled and
shook when I buried my
parents.
‘They have held my children and
grandchildren, 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 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 God.
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I
remember God reached out
and took my grandma’s hands and led her home. When
my hands are hurt or sore
or when I stroke the face of my children and
husband I think of grandma. I
know she 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.
When you receive this, say a prayer for
the person who sent it to you, and
watch God’s answer to prayer work in
your life. Let’s continue praying for
one another.
Thank you to Pastor Denzell Teague of Albuquerque, NM for sending this in! God Bless you Pastor!
