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 herat 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 strong voice.
"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 the following 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 and spouse.
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 Christ."
I will never look at my hands the same again. 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 held by the hands of God. And I, too,
want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.