A Few Truths Friday
Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>
2. Most people will be about as happy as they decide to be.
Author Unknown
My grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio 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, grandpa, 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? he asked. 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.
Grandpa 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 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 grandpa's hands and led him home . When my
hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and
wife I think of grandpa. I know 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.
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