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Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio 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.
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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, Grandpa, 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?"
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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.
Grandpa smiled and related this story:
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"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.
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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.
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As a child my Mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.
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They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
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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.
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They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I
buried my Parents and Spouse and walked my Daughter down
the aisle.
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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.
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They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in
fists of anger when I didn't understand.
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They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and
cleansed the rest of my body.
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They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.
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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.
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These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness
of my life.
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But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach
out and take when he leads me home.
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And with my 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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I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember
God reached out and took my Grandpa's hands and led him
home.
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When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of
my children and husband I think of Grandpa. I know he 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.
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