Grandma's Hands    

  Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.

 She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands.

 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 the following 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."

She continued,"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", Grandma said, "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. 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 held by the hands of God. And I, too, want to touch

the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.

~Unknown~  

This gives us a lot to think about. What is the story of your hands?

Why not write a short story about God's blessings in your life and

 send it to your children and grandchildren?

Betty

  Music: "Take My Hand"

Margi Harrell

Graphic by GranGran