Grandpa’s Hands

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I received this in an email at work and just had to share.  Happy Sunday!

This is good. I’ll  never look at my hands the same!


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.

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?” 

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:

“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 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  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  trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse  and walked my daughter down the aisle.
  • 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  with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I  will use these hands to touch the face of  Christ.”

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. 

When my hands are  hurt or sore 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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