I recently read a story titled Grandpa’s Hands. It reminded me of my Grandpa and Grandma’s hands.
They were old and wrinkled, like in the story I read. They used them to survive and raise their family on the farm where I was born and spent my early years.
Their hands guided me into being the man I would become. I learned by watching them go about their daily lives on that farm.
Grandma’s hands changed my diapers. Her hands showed me how to tie my shoes or put on my boots when I was young.
They combed my hair for a trip to town. They held my face when she told me that she loved me.
They taught me how to fold my hands in prayer. Those same hands lay me down to sleep.
