THESE 'OLD' HANDS

True beauty lies beneath the surface.

While shaking hands with a young minister the other day, I couldn't help noticing how soft, smooth and youthful his hands appeared. They were so well made and delicate, I thought to myself that the Lord's hands must have resembled this beautiful, graceful pair.

Later in the day I happened to be thinking about that short encounter and glanced down at my own hands. What I noticed were the ugly wrinkles and age spots, the callused palms and ragged fingernails and the deep scars and bruises that seem to take forever to heal.

The first thought that came to my mind was how wonderful it would be to have young, sensitive and beautiful hands, like those of the young minister.

The second thought that followed closely behind was that old cliché, "be careful of what you wish for, because you may get it," because a much closer inspection of my old hands revealed many things that the eye could not see.

True! My hands are old, abused and well past their prime. But, they are the hands of a person who has experienced life; they have wonderful memories that much younger hands can only hope to encounter.

For example, the old scar on my left middle finger. I was eight, maybe nine, when I foolishly smashed it with a rock. We had no doctor to go see in those days and my grandmother was far too poor to pay for one anyway. Her Native American medical skills helped to heal the nasty wound but the ugly scar remained. That little scar brought forth warm memories of my grandmother who went to here final reward nearly half a century ago.

A close examination of my ring finger reveled the indelible marks left by my wedding ring. Almost thirty years of wonderful marriage flooded back into my thoughts. Memories of the first time we held hands as a young and silly couple, memories of the first time she placed it on my finger, memories of a shared lifetime together.

For certain there are other scars on my old hands; the harsh scars of battles fought in far distant lands, the scars of anger, hope, even scars of happiness and bitterness.

These old hands have stood by me these many years. They have held the miracle of birth, they have held the hands of each of my children as they took their first stumbling steps, they have consoled friends and relatives, been held in silent prayer and fervent homage to the Lord, and they have struck down my country's enemies with awesome power.

These old hands have produced a lifetime of memories. From their delicate touch many beautiful pieces of art have been created and books have been written. They have endured, providing a means of income for my family, providing a gentle caress, a loving touch, and at times they have been twisted in indecision, doubt, and shaking from exhaustion and dripping with honest sweat.

No! I think I will keep these old hands and the wonderful scars they possess. For each scar there is a memory, a story to be told, a dream to remember. They may be old and worn and ugly, but their beauty lies hidden beneath the surface.

They are not the youthful and beautiful hands of a stranger; they are the hands that God gave me. The Bible said: (So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. The Bible - Genesis 1:27) In Gods own image!

Perhaps when I reach the other side they will once again be the young and beautiful hands I started out with, but until then, I thank God for letting me borrow them.