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.