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My Grandma's Hands

My grandma's hands are wrinkled now
And the skin seems paper thin,
But the story of a lifetime
And its living lie therein.
The substance and the strength of flesh
Have weakened over time,
But the power of my grandma's hands
Is in memories brought to mind.
My grandma's hands are nurturing,
Always reaching out
And drawing in and holding close,
Easing fear and doubt.
I'd guess she's seldom thought about
The comfort she's bestowed,
But anyone who's felt her touch
Would tell you it is so.
I've felt her hands so often as they
Wrapped 'round me in love,
Embracing and accepting,
Forgiving things I've done;
And if I have been gone too long
And too much time has passed,
I just recall my grandma's hugs
And the feelings all flood back.
My grandma's hands have known hard work,
But they labored not in vain;
They've also held the rich rewards
That from such labor came.
They have not shrunk from any task
Nor turned from any need;
They've worked the barren grounds of life
And planted them with seed.
Her hands have taken thread and needle,
Making magic from mere cloth;
The care and love in every piece
Could never be store-bought.
God's used her hands as tools, creating
Comfort, warmth and beauty
As every stitch was testimony
Of love instead of duty.

My grandma's hands have fed us all
And fed our souls, as well;
The kitchen wonders worked by her
Are more than I could tell.
It never seems to be a task--
Each meal seems to appear--
The meats and sweets and holiday treats
Are gifts of love, 'tis clear.
My grandma's hands are patient,
They are kind and they are calm;
A simple touch of Grandma's hand
Works like healing balm
On restless spirits charging forth,
Not knowing how to live--
My grandma's hands impart the wisdom
Her life has to give.
Her hands have felt the pain of grief;
With sorrow they've been touched;
They've held the dying spirits
Of ones they've loved so much.
They've comforted and eased the way
And shrunk not from the night,
Knowing shadows in the dark
Are pierced by God's own light.
You might think my grandma's hands
Are only flesh and bone;
And when you touch them, you might think
She's simply growing old;
But if you knew my grandma,
You would never hesitate
To swear her hands embodied
All the good things God's created.
When life has gone and hands are still,
Her touch will be felt yet;
And if you said I had her hands,
It'd be quite a compliment.
I think if it were possible
For us to truly see. . .
. . . On every angel in God's heaven,
There my grandma's hands would be!

Melinda Williams