HANDS

The young man had just returned home from his junior year in college.  He had been working so very hard to keep his grades up as prepared for medical school.  It hadn’t been easy, but truly wanted his dad to be proud of him and did not want to let him down.

His dad joined him at the kitchen table over morning coffee one morning.  The young man saw the wrinkles in his dad’s face and the skin that had been dried from spending way too many hours in the sun.  His dad lifted his coffee cup to his lips and took a swallow.  The young man became fascinated when he saw his dad’s hands, nimble but so very strong, scarred and tanned, calloused fingers and palms.  Why had he not noticed this before?

“What happened to your hands, dad?” the young man blurted out as young men are prone to do, tongue wagging before the brain is engaged.  There was no immediate reaction from the father, but then his eyes met the eyes of his son, and with a quirky smile he answered, “Son, let’s take a little ride.”

He followed his dad out to the rusted, beat up pickup truck and they drove down the road away from the farm and into the nearby town.    He was surprised when they pulled into the driveway of the young man’s grandmother.  Together, they got out of the truck and walked towards the house.  Just beyond the front gate was a most extraordinary garden of both flowers and vegetables, all healthy and cared for with a matching sweet aroma.  They turned to climb the steps to the front door but stopped short when they saw the young man’s grandmother on her knees tending to a rose bush

The young man thought that this was unseemly.  After all, she was almost 80 years old.  She noticed them and stopped her work.  The young man’s dad helped her to her feet and together they all walked up the stairs to the porch where each took a seat.

The elderly woman offered them some cold, sweet tea that she had in a pitcher on a small table and they gladly accepted.  She poured them each a glass and then sat back down.

“Now what brings you into town to visit this old woman,” his grandmother asked.  His dad paused, and with that same quirky smile that he had had at the breakfast table he replied.  “The boy wants to know what’s wrong with my hands.  That alone seemed like a good enough reason to come visit.”

Surprised that he had never noticed it before, the young man looked at his grandmother’s hands.  The fingers were so thin and bony, but calloused.  He could see the blood vessels running under the skin, skin that was tanned like his dads, but with a few more age spots.  His dad noticed him staring and shook his head.  “Is there a problem, son?” 

“Your hands, her hands, they are so calloused and boney.  When did that happen?  Why didn’t I notice?”

The father took his mothers’s hands into his own and replied, “Son, these hands have planted and nurtured seeds all of her life, and all of that takes its toll on the body.  With these hands, your grandmother planted that oak tree out yonder when she was only six.  With these hands she raised six children, including me.  These hands held your mother when she passed from cancer when you were only five.  These hands held you when I could not.  These hands stood in the gap when I was overwhelmed. These hands have grown vegetables to feed the hungry and flowers for the residents at the local nursing home.  These hands fed and clothed me growing up.  These hands wiped my fevered brow when I was sick, held me close when you mother died, prayed for me when I failed and praised God for me when I found my way back to Him.  These hands were there to help raise you in the absence of your mother.  These hands are beyond beautiful.  Every wrinkle, every scratch, every patch of aging skin, every callous is a reminder to me of the sacrifices and the love that this woman has shown towards me.  It is only through the grace of God that my hands are beginning to look much as hers.”

The young man stared down at his own hands, slick and smooth, and suddenly felt shame at this lack of understanding.  This woman of God had given so very much of herself for the sake of her family and her community.  His father had followed in her footsteps.  He suddenly realized that his hands were pristine because his father’s hands and his grandmother’s hands weren’t.”

He hadn’t been to church in a while.  He had found himself too busy.  But suddenly memories of his grandmother taking him church and the messages he had heard came drifting into his mind.  “I am the vine, you are the branches.” “Jesus paid it all.”  “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” “Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.”

His hands were pristine because someone else had done the work, willingly paid the price, dedicated themselves to lifting him and bringing him opportunity.  Lesson learned.  Now it was time to work on his own soul and start using his own hands to accomplish God’s will in his community.

Rev Walt