"GRANDPA'S HANDS"

"GRANDPA'S HANDS"
(author unknown)

Grandpa, who was in his nineties, sat quietly on the patio bench, staring down at his hands. He didn’t move or speak, just sat with his head bowed, focused on his hands. I joined him, but he didn’t acknowledge me. As I sat beside him, I began to worry if something was wrong. After a while, I gently asked, "Are you OK, Grandpa?"

He lifted his head, smiled warmly, and replied, "Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking."

"I didn’t mean to disturb you," I said, "but you were just sitting here staring at your hands, and I wanted to make sure you were alright."

He smiled again and asked, "Have you ever really looked at your hands? I mean, really looked at them?"

Curious, I opened my hands and examined them, turning them over, palms up, then down. I hadn’t really thought much about my hands before, and I tried to understand what Grandpa was getting at.

Seeing my confusion, Grandpa began to share, "Take a moment to think about your hands, how they’ve served you throughout your life. My hands, though wrinkled, shrivelled, and weak now, have been my tools for living. They’ve fed me, clothed me, and allowed me to embrace life. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They’ve been dirty, scraped, raw, swollen, and bent. They fumbled when I held my new born son for the first time. Adorned with my wedding band, they told the world I was married and in love. They trembled as I buried my parents, my spouse, and when I walked my daughter down the aisle. These hands have covered my face in sorrow, combed my hair, and bathed my body. They’ve been sticky, wet, broken, dried, and raw. And even now, when the rest of me doesn’t work as well as it used to, these hands still hold me up, lay me down, and fold in prayer."

He paused, then continued, "These hands are the story of where I’ve been, a testament to the ruggedness of my life. But most importantly, these hands will be the ones God takes when He leads me home. With these hands, I will touch the face of Christ."

His words left me in awe, and I knew I would never look at my hands the same way again. When Grandpa passed away, I remembered how God had taken his hands and led him home. Now, whenever my hands ache or are sore, I think of Grandpa and how his hands were held by God. I, too, hope to one day touch the face of God and feel His hands upon mine.

Let us all take a moment to pray for the world and witness how God answers our prayers.

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