From Our Front Porch You can See.....: Nineteen Ten

My Grandma's Hands

By Melinda Clements

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 am fine, thank you for asking," she said in a clear strong voice.

I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandma, but you were sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure that 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 then palms down. No I guess I never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point that she was making.

Grandma smiled and related this story:

"Stop and think for a moment about the hands that you have, how they have served you well throughout the years. These hands though wrinkled and 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 serve our country in time of war.

They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy as I tried to hold my newborn son. The left hand is decorated with my wedding band that 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 my 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 works well, but these hands hold me up, lay me down, and continue to fold in prayer.

The 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 these hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch his face."

I will never look at these hands the same again.

When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of my Grandma. I know that one day she will be stroked and caressed and held by the Hands Of God!

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This piece was used by permission from the author Melinda Clements (c)