Grandma Hands

May 13, 2012 Features / Columnists, Food For Thought

Grandma, some Seventy Seven plus years, sat feebly on
the patio bench. She didn’t move, just sat with her
head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside
her she didn’t acknowledge my presence and the longer
I sat I wondered if she was ok.

Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting
to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she
was ok.

She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. Yes,
I’m fine, thank you for asking, she said in a clear
strong voice.

I didn’t mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were
just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted
to make sure you were ok.

Have you ever looked at your hands, she 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 she was making.

Grandma 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 young husband and wiped
my tears when he went off to war.

They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and
bent. They were firm yet gentle when I held my
newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band, they
showed the world that I was married and loved someone
special. They replied to the letters written home
and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and
spouse and watched as my daughter walked down the
aisle.

Yet, they were strong and sure when I grabbed my child
and jerked her away from danger when a car was going
too fast, and they clasped my children lovingly for
stitches, broken bones, and measles. They have held
children, consoled neighbors, and shook in anger
when I didn’t understand. They have covered my face,
combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my
body, and those of my family.

From the day a new baby was born, to the day I washed
my first love’s body and prepared him for his final
viewing. They have been sticky, wet, bent, broken,
dried, and raw.

To this day when not much of anything else of me works
real well, these hands hold me up, lay me down, and
continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark
of where I’ve been and the richness of my life.

This is simply too beautiful not to share.

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Grandma Hands

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