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 friends 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.
More importantly though 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.