Hands

Hands

Lately I have taken notice of my hands. They are old man’s hands. Not only are they wrinkly but they are covered with brown spots. Not freckles like they used to be but rather ugly aging spots. It’s not just my hands but the rest of me is slowly going the way of all flesh. I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror, but I can’t avoid seeing those hands.

That started me thinking about what I have done with my hands over the years. Remembering that they were once tiny like a newborn baby. Slowly they grew in strength to hold objects and the ability to feed myself. Later to write the alphabet in cursive. Then more complex functions like hitting the head of a nail with a hammer without bruising my fingers.

These are the hands that held Judy’s on our wedding day when I said, “I do.” The hands that held each of our children at birth and later each of our grandchildren. The same ones that labored to provide food, clothing and shelter for our family. Hands that blessed and disciplined when needed. Dexterous fingers that wrote checks that paid the bills and played a few notes on the piano.

Hands that years ago were anointed with oil to bring healing and hope to the sick and dying. Hands that would comfort those who mourned the loss of loved ones and clapped with joy at festive occasions celebrating life and happiness.

Aging has a way of making one face the reality that this life is but for a season. The truth is that these hands still have work to do. I am blessed with good health that enables me to do the work of the ministry that God has given me. These hands can still grab ahold of life with the best of them.

I take seriously these words from the Bible: “So take a new grip with your tired hands, stand firm with your shaky legs, and mark out a straight, smooth path for your feet so that those who follow you, though weak and lame, will not fall or hurt themselves but become strong.”