Mama's hands

Mama, some ninety 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 voice strong. 

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Mama, but you were just 
sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure 
you were OK," I explained to her. 

"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. 

Mama 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 held my husband and wiped my tears when 
he 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 my letters to him and trembled and shook when I 
buried my parents and spouse. 

"They have held my children and grandchildren, 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 life. 

But more importantly it will be these hands 
that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. 

And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I 
will use these hands to touch the face of GOD 

I will never look at my hands the same again. 

But I remember God reached out and took my Mama's hands 
and led her home. 

When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face 
of my children and husband I think of Mama. 
I know she 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.  

Let's continue praying for one another. 

-- Author Unknown