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Grandmas Hands


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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

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

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 of 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 wiped my tears when my husband went off to war. They have been dirty,

scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to

hold our newborn daughter. 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. 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 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 thank 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.

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