The Hands

[Guest guest]

The 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 God.

 

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 God, for hands.