Grandpa's Hands (A reminder of my Dad)

(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.

• They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back.

(Elsie Mae’s hand and Great Grandpas hand)

• As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.
• 

• 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.

Author unknown

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.

Nite Shipslog

PS:

BEAUTY PARLOR:

A place where women curl up and dye. 

PS2:

Here is a 1951 Buick Special waiting on a Steam engine. I loved to smell that smoke.