|
Hands
Author: Unknown
An old man, probably some ninety plus years, sat feebly on
the park 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, sir, 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. Then he 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
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 dried the tears of my children
and caressed the love of my life. They held my
rifle and wiped my tears when I 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 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 plow off of my best friends foot.
They have held children, 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 my
life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God
will reach out and take when he leads me home. And He won't
care about where these hands have been or what they have
done.
What He
will care about is to whom these hands belong and how much
He loves these hands. And with these hands He will lift me
to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the
face of Christ."
Author Unknown |
