grandma's

  I was privileged to take a photo of "Five Generations of Women" shortly  before my 93 year-old grandmother passed away last year.

  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 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 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, 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 Christ."

  I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember that 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 stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God.

  -Hal Ruppert