My Aunt Laverne sent me an email this week and when I read it I sat and cried like a baby. I have a thing about people and their hands. I think hands tell a story about the person and their lives. I can remember as a child being fascinated with my grandfather's hands as he played whatever stringed instrument he held. I remember my grandmother putting some kind of Avon lotion on her hands after washing the laundry with lye soap to keep them soft. I have good memories of hands. Never in my life were hands used to abuse me....now that is not to say they were never used to discipline me.....but I have never been afraid of them. The email was called Grandpa Hands and I feel like I need to share it with you. I don't know who the author is, but they have definitely got some more insight on the subject of hands. I hope you enjoy this....I know I did.
"Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He
didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When
I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the
longer I sat, I wondered if he was OK.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on
him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK.
He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine.
Thank you for asking," he said in a clear strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting
here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,"
I explained to him.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," he 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 he was
making. Grandpa 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 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 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 trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and
walked my daughter down the aisle.
� 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 grandpa's hands and led him home.
When my hands are hurt or sore I think of Grandpa. I know he 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."