C
cly
Guest
I got this in an e-mail from my friend. No, my friend isn't the grand-daughter in the story. It's just one of those forwarded stories of the e-mail world.
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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 strong voice.
â€ÂI 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.
â€ÂHave you ever looked at your hands,†she asked. “I mean really looked
at your hands?â€Â
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:
â€ÂStop 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 of my life to
reach out and grab and embrace life.
â€ÂThey 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.
â€ÂThey dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life.
They wiped my tears when my husband went off to war. They have been
dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. &! nbsp;
â€ÂThey were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold our newborn
daughter.
â€ÂDecorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was
married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home and trembled
and shook when I buried my parents and spouse.
“They have held children, 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 my life.
“But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out
and take when He le ads 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.â€Â
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
thank 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.
****************************************
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 strong voice.
â€ÂI 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.
â€ÂHave you ever looked at your hands,†she asked. “I mean really looked
at your hands?â€Â
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:
â€ÂStop 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 of my life to
reach out and grab and embrace life.
â€ÂThey 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.
â€ÂThey dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life.
They wiped my tears when my husband went off to war. They have been
dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. &! nbsp;
â€ÂThey were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold our newborn
daughter.
â€ÂDecorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was
married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home and trembled
and shook when I buried my parents and spouse.
“They have held children, 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 my life.
“But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out
and take when He le ads 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.â€Â
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
thank 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.