Hands

I am posting the "chicken soup for the soul"-type piece below because, regardless of your religious beliefs (or absence thereof), it still provides a great deal of food for thought. I don't know about you, but when I really stop and think about what my hands and my loved ones' hands have done over the course of time, it blows my mind. Enjoy.

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Grandpa's hands

Grandpa, some ninety-plus years old, 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 the more I wondered whether 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 had never really looked at my hands. I tried to figure out the point he was making and looked up questioningly at him. 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. My hands, though now 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.

When I was a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.

They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.

They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I 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 letters home, and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and beloved wife and walked my daughter down the aisle.

Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot.

They have held children, 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 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 really 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 my hands to touch the face of Christ."

Not long after that, God reached out and took my Grandpa's hands and led him home.

I know I will never look at my hands the same way again. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife, 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.