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      GRANDMA’S HANDS 
      Mike L. Tangle 

      I’ll never look at my hands the same! Grandma, 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 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,” 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 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 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 own, 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 Christ.” 

      I will never look at my hands the same again. God reached out and took my 
      grandma’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 Grandma. I know she 
      has been held by the hands of God. And I, too, want to touch the face of 
      God and feel His hands upon my face. 

      When you receive this, say a prayer for the person who sent it to you and 
      watch God’s answer to prayer work in your life. 

      Let’s continue praying for one another. Passing this on to anyone you 
      consider a friend will bless you both. Pass this on to one not yet 
      considered a friend. 
      It is something Christ would do. 

      Have A Great Day And God Bless Everything Your Hands May Touch!