Grandmother's Hands

I was able to spend some time helping one of the most beautiful woman I have met, make some memories she wanted for herself , and her family...
The poem at the end describes her...
and many of us,
very well...
Thank you for the opportunity
Mrs. BLH
Grandmother's Hand's
Author Unknown
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.