- 18 Mar 2005, 22:46
#1951
With These Hands
Author Unknown
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, 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, 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 with these hands, He will lift me to His
side, and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God."
====================
Author Unknown
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, 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, 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 with these hands, He will lift me to His
side, and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God."
====================
~Tanveer~
- By BatoolM