My grandmother

I noticed one time that my hands looked just like my mother's and grandmother's hands. Our hands always fascinated me so when I found a story about hands, I adapted it for my grandmother's life.

Grandma’s Hands
Adapted from the Poem “These Hands”
These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I used all my life to reach out, to grab and embrace life.

They caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.

They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life. They were constantly folded in prayer as my son went off to war.

They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I held my first born child. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.

They wrote the letters and trembled and shook when I buried my husband and saw my children married.

Yet, they were strong and sure when I learned to put food on the table for my family as a single mother. 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.