Hands
Author: Unknown
An old man, probably some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the park bench.
He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I
sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I
wondered if he was ok. Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but
wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was ok. He
raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for
asking," he said in a clear strong voice. "I didn't mean to disturb you,
sir, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to
make sure you were ok?" I explained to him. "Have you ever looked at your
hands?", he 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 he was making. Then he 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 dried the tears of my children
and caressed the love of my life. They held my rifle and wiped my tears
when I 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 the letters home and trembled and shook
when I buried my parents and spouse and walked my daughter down the aisle.
Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and
lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot.
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 leads me home. And He won't care about
where these hands have been or what they have done. What He will care about
is to whom these hands belong and how much He loves these hands. And with
these hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to
touch the face of Christ."
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