Grandma's Hands
Grandma, some ninety plus years,
sat feebly by the patio bench.
She didn't move,
just sat with her head down
staring at her hands
as Grandfather played.
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 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. 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.
Author Unknown
Joan
1-25-2007