Grandpa's Hands

Grandpa, some 90-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, the more I wondered if he was alright.

Finally, not wanting to disturb him but feeling the need to check on him at the same time, I asked if he was okay. He raised his head, 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."

"Have you ever looked at your hands?" he asked. "I mean, really looked at them?"

I slowly opened my hands and stared at them. I turned them over, palms up, then 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 said:

"Stop and think for a moment about your hands and how they have served you all these 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 laces and pulled on my boots. They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war.

"They have been dirty, scraped 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 plough off my best friend's foot. They have held children, consoled neighbours, and shaken 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 really well, these hands hold me up, lay me down, and continue to fold in prayer.

"These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life. But, more importantly, they are what God will reach out for and take when He leads me home. He will lift me to His side and I will touch His face with my hands."

From that day, I never looked at my hands the same way again. When they are hurt or sore, or when I stroke the face of my children and wife, I think of grandpa. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.

Sent to Starmag by Leong Michelle