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
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
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
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.
No doubt I will never look at my hands the same
again. I never saw the old man again after I
left the park that day but I will never forget
him and the words he spoke. When my hands are
hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my
children and wife I think of the man in the
park. I have a feeling 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.
Thank you, Father God, for hands.
I'll bet you will never look at your hands in
the same way again.
Think of them receiving *The Lord's Last Supper*
Then think of His Hands as they were nailed to
God Bless & Much Love To All~~~~~~ Dede