Grandpas Hands

When I think of my Grandpa, I see his hands.
Hands that were big, full of strength and love.
Hands that played football and caused mischief in his youth.
Hands that chopped wood for the fire place, hauled hay, raced horses and farmed.
Hands rested upon his stomach, fingers entwined in humble prayer.
Hands that planted many gardens; hands skilled with a hoe.
Hands that steered the four wheeler as we rode around aimlessly, my face buried in his back to hide from the wind.
Hands that drove and fixed machinery.
Hands old and weathered, showing signs of his hard work.
Hands that honored the Priesthood.
Hands that blessed me as an infant, Hands that confirmed me, Hands that were lain upon my head countless times; healing and comforting me.
Hands that gently milked a cow and groomed a horse I would soon ride.
Hands that caught a newborn colt and lovingly helped it stand.
Hands that skillfully fished and hunted
Hands that held the scriptures, still containing his scent, as he studied Heavenly Fathers word.
Hand that taught guided and trained.
Hands, though rough, soothed me when I cried. Even though I had often painted their nails ruby red, bubble gum pink, sky blue and many other colors after he had fallen asleep in his chair.
Hands, although weakened with age, were still able to ‘get the lid off.’
Hands that held tight to the remote as a selfish Granddaughter tried to take it away.
Hand that love her unconditionally.
Hands, now cold and lifeless, resting humbly on his chest. Fingers entwined as if in in prayer as I touch them for the last time before the lid closes.
Spirit hands, now shaking those of love ones missed.
Hands ready to do the Saviors work.
Hands that will be there to hold mine when we meet again.
When I think of my Grandpa,
I remember his hands.
2/14/2008