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."
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story.
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