Jenifer Barr.
Waiting for HIS soon return!
AIM: jenibear1998
msn
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----- Original Message -----
From: "Louise" <[log in to unmask]>
To: "Jenifer Barr" <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, November 11, 2004 11:04 AM
Subject: Hands


>
>
> This is so beautiful that I had to pass it on.
>
>
> HANDS
>
> 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 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 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 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 rugged-ness 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 Christ.
>
> 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.
>
>
>