Grandpa's Hands

 
 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.