Grandpa’s hands
I will never look at my hands the same way again!
Grandfather, in his nineties, sitting weakly on the patio bench. He didn’t move, he just sat with his head down looking at his hands. When I sat next to him he didn’t take notice and the more time passed, I wondered if he was okay. Finally, not really wanting to get in his way but to check on him, I asked him how he was feeling.
He raised his head, looked at me and smiled. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she said in a strong, clear voice.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were sitting here just looking at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were okay,” I explained.
“Have you ever looked at your hands?” she asked. “I mean, have you really looked at your hands?”
I slowly opened my hands and stay contemplating them. I flipped them over, palms up, then palms down. No, I don’t think I’d ever really watched them while I was trying to figure out what she wanted to tell me. Grandpa smiled and told me this story:
“Stop and think for a moment about your hands, how they have served you well through the years. These hands, though wrinkled, dry and weak, have been the tools I have used all my life to reach, grasp and embrace life.
They put food in my mouth and clothes on my body. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoelaces and helped me put on my boots. They have been dirty, scratched and rough, swollen and bent. They were clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding ring, they showed the world that I was married and in love with someone special.
They trembled when I buried my parents and wife and when I walked down the aisle with my daughter at her wedding. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleaned the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dry and cut. And to this day, when almost nothing else in me is working right, these hands help me up and sit down, still folding in prayer.
These hands are the mark of where I’ve been and the roughness of my life. But more importantly, it is that they are the ones that God will take in His own when He takes me home. And with my hands, He will lift me up 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 way again. But I remember that God stretched out His own and took my grandfather’s and took him home.
When my hands are hurt or hurt, I think of Grandpa. I know he has received pats and hugs from the hands of God. I also want to touch God’s face and feel his hands on mine.
Our hands are a genuine blessing, in fact, it is enough to imagine seeing ourselves deprived of them or using them to realize how important they are. Another thing that today’s story made me think about was what we do with those hands in terms of our relationships with others: will we use them to hug and express care and affection or will we use them to display anger and rejection? Hopefully today’s thought will help us choose wisely. May the Lord bless you, dear reader.
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