For Grandmas and Lolas

An officemate of mine gave me a copy of this article, and I feel it is a beautiful story.  I am sharing it with all grandmas, and future grandmas.  Remember, that for every child born into this world, there is also a  grandma! 

Grandma’s Hands

 

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 okay.  Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she was okay.

 

She raised her head and looked at me and smiled.  “Yes, I am fine, thank you for asking,” she said in a clear strong voice.

 

“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 okay,” 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 looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making.

 

Grandma smiled and related the following story:

 

“Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well through 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.  These hands  braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.  These put food in my mouth and clothes on my back.  As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.  These tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.”

 

“These held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.  These have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent! “

 

“These were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn child.  Decorated with my wedding band and showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.”

 

“These wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse.”   These have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn’t understand.  These have covered my face, combed my hair, washed and cleansed the rest of my body.”

 

“These 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 have 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 and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.”

 

I will never look at my hands the same again.  God reached out and took my grandma’s hands and led her home.  When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband, I think of Grandma.  I know she has been held by the hands of God.  And I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.