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"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 okay," 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
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 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 He will lift me to His side and 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.
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