Grandma's Hands
I received this segment through email. And although this is not my Grandma or any of my family's hands, I loved the thought behind this piece. It is fairly long, but please read to the end. I think you will get a blessing from the meaning of this article.
"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." 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 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."
Just as the person who this happened to, I will also never look at my hands the same way again. I also agree with her that God reached out and took my grandma's and Mom's hands and led them home.
This lady says that when her hands are hurt or sore or when she strokes the face of her children and husband she thinks of her grandma. She knows she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I agree with her that I, too, will now think of my Grandma and Mom when I use my hands. I also want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.
I may never get to know this lady but I want to thank her sharing her story with others. I hope you get the same blessing that I received when I read this article. God bless each and every one who reads this.
After listening to her Grandma, she took the picture listed above to show the hands of her family. Pretty neat idea!
