by Jane Coryell

Created on: October 09, 2008

Beautiful Hands

Folded hands of age, now in their final hours, they lay so still. As I sit by my grandmother's side, in the last hours before her death, I reach out for her hands, still so beautiful to me. I grasp them and fold them into mine. For the first time in my life, they do not respond. With tears falling down my cheeks, I remember all the work these precious hands have done.

I see the pictures of my grandmother holding me as a baby, her hands warmly cradling me in her arms. She raised so many children, her own and her grandchildren. I see her hands placing us in our highchairs and bathing us before bedtime. These hands tenderly walked me and my siblings up the church steps on Sunday mornings and rocked the babies in the church nursery.

Her hands worked hard throughout the day, cleaning the house and working in the kitchen. Taking us out back to the big cherry tree, she would show us how to pick the cherries. Her hands would carry in the big basket to the kitchen counter, where she taught us to make those yummy cherry tarts.

Before bed, I remember when she would let down her long hair and her hands would reach for her brush. After watching her brush her long, silky hair, I would ask her if I could brush it. She loved this and I was so proud to please her! As I brushed and brushed, she would twirl her hairnet in her hands, long nails shiny and clear.

These hands worked hard throughout her life. They prepared our family meals, put the clothes through the old wringer washing machine, and swept off the front porch. They consoled many a friend and family member through the hardships of life.

But as I grasped these hands, my most vivid memory was of them being folded in prayer. In the evening, my grandmother would go out onto the front porch, carrying her bible. All alone, she would sit, her hands clutched in the midst of her bible. Underneath the moonlit sky, she would sit praying for each one of us. These same hands that praised the Lord and held the hymnal in church, now, so achingly still.

I envision them reaching for her Lord as the time draws near. They have earned their reward and I know they will not be still for long. They will be smoothing out the angel's wings or hugging her beloved husband she so grieved over at his death. They will tend to the heavenly garden's or hold the babies that never grew on this earth. Oh no, these hands will not be still for long.

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