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 the following 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.