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

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 tied

my shoes and pulled on my boots.

They dried the tears of my children and caressed

the love of my life.  They held my rifle and wiped my

 tears when I went off to war.  They have been

dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
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

 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,