Hands
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.
No doubt I will never look at my hands the same again. I never saw
the old man again after I left the park that day but I will never
forget him and the words he spoke. When my hands are hurt or sore or
when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think of the man in
the park. I have a feeling 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. Thank you, Father God, for hands.
[ Author Unknown -- from 'Inspired Buffalo' (InspiredBuffalo@lighthouse.net) ]
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