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Angela
Rose-O'Brien
Publisher
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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 voice strong.
"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
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
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. But I
remember 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 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.
–
Author Unknown
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