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 voice strong.
"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 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, shrivelled 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."
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.
-- by Melinda Clements
