When I think of the scars on Jesus’ hands they bring to my mind sacrifice and a deep, unfathomable love. His hands tell a story of grace. When I think of my grandma’s hands they represent years of working relentlessly on the farm. They represent the hands that held three amazing children after they were brought into this world. They represent seasons of working and nurturing growth in her garden. They represent years of baking countless cookies and flawless cakes. They represent serving her family breakfast, lunch and dinner and when her grand kids visited serving them their favorite meal of sweet-and-sour meatballs. They represent playing numerous games of chicken track that would last well into the night. They represent memories of toting my sister and I to the park in a metal wagon. They represent the quilts she labored over to give to others. They represent the infamous back rubs she would give me every time I would stay the night as a child. She would gingerly trace her finger along my back to soothe me to sleep. Last time I was in Illinois as I sat at my grandmother’s feet she gave me a brief back rub and I relished that moment as it brought to mind my childhood memories. These are hands that never grew weary of doing good even after battling three cancers. My grandma is a fierce fighter. In the nursing home despite her pain, she would open her eyes, give us a smile and then hold out her hands to be held. I’ll tell you what. There’s no other hand I rather be holding and for me in those moments time slowed down. The only thing that mattered at all was holding her hand as long as she would let me. Although I can no longer hold her hand, I can hold onto her memory and live my life knowing how blessed I am to have shared so much life with a tenacious, brave woman. Most importantly, I know on December 21, 2014 my grandma walked hand-in-hand with Jesus our savior.
Hands tell stories.