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, 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 all
right," 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 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 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 the letters home and trembled and shook
when I buried my parents and spouse 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 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, 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.



May the Lord Bless and Keep you.