Grandma's Hands
Just look at the picture above for a minute.
and then read below...I was privileged to take a photo of "Five Generations of Women"
shortly before my 93 year-old Grandmother passed away last year..
The photo shown below, features the hands of my
Grandmother, Mom, Sister, Niece and Great-Niece.
While I can't take credit for the idea, I was so happy to have
had the suggestion & capture this moment. It inspired a friend of
mine to do something similar, which turned out so beautiful it
became a special keepsake, prior to her father's passing.
GRANDMA'S HANDS A must read through to the end please!!
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 OK
Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on
her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK.
She raised her head and looked at me and smiled.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she said in a clear voice strong.
"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 OK.
" 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 really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making. Grandma 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 held my husband and wiped my tears when he 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 my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried
my parents and spouse.
They have held my children and grandchildren, 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 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 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 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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