A Blessed Sunday to One and All!
A Blessed Sunday to One and All!
This email has circulated before, but bears repeating for anyone who have not seen it, and I've added some illustrations.
I did not have the joy of knowing my paternal grandfather, who died when my father was 15, and my paternal grandfather was in another state - visits few; perhaps two dozen in number.
The most memorable was in 1952, visiting my grandparents for a weekend when I was stationed at Parris Island, during the Korean Conflict.
They insisted I go to church on Sunday in my Marine Corps uniform (in a day when few women were in service!), sitting, of course, on the front row.
My second cousin in the choir sang a solo - Bless This House - so very stirringly, it brought my tears, and my grandfather, the minister, then proudly announced my presence to the congregation.
(Many were relatives..:))
My last visit with them was a special one in 1958 with my mother, to show them my two precious sons, ages 3 and 4.
However, his hands had written to my parents upon my birth of my grandparent's joy and with a special prayer - penned letters to me on my birthdays - crafted telegrams to congratulate me when I excelled - I still have those cherished pieces of paper! - and guided in prayers and comforted many, in his being a minister into his 70's and far beyond, much loved, living to age 92.
This made me look at my own hands, and review the Stages of My Life and their role in that..:))
They are wonderfully worn and somewhat impaired, but it can be said that even if I am paralyzed and can physically no longer lift them, in my heart they always will be lifted upward toward Him - -
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Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio 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, Grandpa, 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.
Grandpa 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 held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war.
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.
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.
But I remember God reached out and took my Grandpa's hands and led him home.
When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife
I thank Grandpa.
I know 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.
