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.
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.
"LIFE IS NOT A JOURNEY TO THE GRAVE WITH THE INTENTION OF ARRIVING SAFELY N A PRETTY AND WELL PRESERVED BODY, BUT RATHER TO SKID IN SIDE-WAYS, THOROUGHLY USED UP, TOTALLY WORN OUT, AND LOUDLY PROCLAIMING: WOW....
WHAT A RIDE !!!"
-------------------- Debbie Posts: 674 | From: USA | Registered: Feb 2001
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posted
This IS truly moving, Debbie . ----------------------- In my case, my hands are my weakest link and my strongest link at the same time, and the oldest looking part of my body. It's the paint, the thinner, the pulling of the squeegees for screening, and the hurt thumb base from the squeegees for appylying vynull, the hopeless fingernails, and all those wrinkles .
Once I broke the center of my hand carrying 4x8's - I was younger and stronger then by about 25 years, and moved them from my station wagon with wood on the side, over the front porch, through front hall and living room into the dining room which is where I worked while I was getting divorced. It grew back all weird with my little finger on my right hand permanently strangely angled. (I healed it by supporting the break with an ace bandage.) My hands also did just about all the stuff mentioned in your story, except for the foxhole and the plow thing .
The rare times I applied nail polish I was never even once able to have it dry without it getting messed up from "doing something". On my fingers, anyway. I manage the toes OK.
I'm real proud of my hands actually, just between us, and I know exactly what is meant in the story . By noticing her hands Rhett knew what Scarlett had been up to at Tara . Just like that, my hands know and show where I've been. ---------------- I did all the icons just because I could. Until Doug told me how, I was lost on the new format.
-------------------- Myra A. Grozinger Signs Limited Winston-Salem, NC
signslimited@triad.rr.com Posts: 1244 | From: Winston-Salem, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1998
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Great post to find on this fine Sunday morning. It seems the older I get, the more emotionally I react to posts or emails like yours. A real shame that I didn't have those types of reactions much earlier in life. My Dad used to repeat an old Amish (I think) saying:
"Ve grow too soon oldt, und too late shmart."
How right he was.
-------------------- William "Irish" Holohan Resting...Read "Between Jobs." Marlboro, MA 01752 email: firemap1@aol.com Posts: 1110 | From: Marlboro, MA | Registered: Dec 2001
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