With These Hands

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."