(I read this story and wanted to post it, I hope you enjoy it)
(This photo is actually the hands of an ex-slave)
Grandpa 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 I asked him, “Are you Okay?”
"Have you ever looked at your hands, 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. 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.
- (Elsie Mae’s hand and Great Grandpas hand)
- They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.
- They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
- They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
- (Great Grandmas hands, holding Elsie Mae)
They trembled and shook when I buried my parents and friends and walked my daughter down the aisle.
- They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleaned 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 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 on my face.
I remember my dad’s hands, he was a preacher, but his hands were tough. He was never afraid of manual labor, he seemed to relish it. I will never forget them.
A place where women curl up and dye.
Here is a 1951 Buick Special waiting on a Steam engine. I loved to smell that smoke.