Subject: The Old Man's Hands


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.