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, God, for my hands.
AUTHOR . . . UNKNOWN