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.

"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 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.



This was sent to me and my cousin in 2007, close to the anniversary of our Grandmother's death. I cried for what seemed like hours. Though someone else wrote this story, it tells a story of my Grandma. I can't wait to meet Jesus what a wonderful day, but I am happy to know that my Grandma and Grandpa are both in the presence of the Lord.