It is that time of year when we have more opportunity to reflect on what is important to us. The office is always going to be there. Our family may not. I would ask each and all of you to slow down for a minute, put the shopping on pause, take care of settlement issues later - and consider what is most important in your life today and through all your tomorrows. A survey was completed a few years ago of men and women in their 70's and 80's. The survey covered life at home and at work. One of the significant findings was in what was not said: None of the people interviewed said: "I wish I had spent more time at the office". "Grandpa's Hands" is a gentle reminder of who we are and, who we love. Happy holidays to you and your family.
Dave
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, 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, not really wanting
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.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, grandpa, 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.
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 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 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 wife 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 friend's 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 with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use
these hands to touch the face of Christ".
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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 or when I stroke the face of my
children and wife - 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 upon my face.
Pass this on to anyone you consider a friend.
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