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 okay.
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
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.
Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they
have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shrivelled
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 new born
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 neighbours, 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.
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.
Author Unknown
These Hands
Song by Johnny Cash
These
hands aren't the hands of a gentleman these hands are calloused and old
These hands raised a family these hands built a home
Now these hands raised to praise the Lord
These
hands won the heart of my loved one and with hers they were never alone
If these hands filled their task then what more could you ask
For these fingers have worked to the bone
Now don't
try to judge me by what you'd like me be
For my life hasn't been a success
Some people have power but still they grieve
While these hands brought me happiness
Now I'm
tired and I'm old and I haven't much gold
Maybe things ain't been all that I planned
Lord above hear my plea when it's time to judge me
Take a look at these hard working hands take a look at these hard working hands
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