I walked up to an Elder some time back, sitting on the bank by a creek. He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands.
I walked towards him and sat down beside him. The Elder didn't respond to my presence and the longer I sat with him, I began to wonder if he was okay.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb the Elder but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was okay. The Elder raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine my friend, thank you for asking."
"I didn't mean to disturb you sir, but you were just sitting, staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were okay."
The Elder looked at me and asked if I had ever looked at my hands closely. I opened my hands and looked at them. I turned them over, my palms up and then palms down. "No sir, I guess I have never really looked at my hands close," I said. I tried to figure out the point the Elder was making about my hands. Then the Elder smiled and told me this story about his hands.
"If you will stop and think for a moment my friend about the hands you have, how they have served you throughout your years of walking on this Earth."
"These hands of mine are wrinkled, shriveled and weak. They have been the tools I have used to reach out and embrace all that has been offered to me on this Earth. These hands have braced and caught my falls when I was a little one. These hands put food in my mouth and clothes on my back."
"As a child, my grandpa taught me to fold them for prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. These hands have helped dry the tears of my people and hold close those that are dear to me. They wrote letters home when I went to war, held my rifle straight in battle, and wiped my tears when I returned."
"They have been sticky, wet, dirty, scraped, raw, swollen, bent and broken. Decorated with my wedding band, they showed to all that I was married to someone special and they were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. They trembled and shook when I buried my Mother and Father. Yet, they were strong and sure when I pulled my wounded buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friends foot."
"My hands have held children, consoled neighbors and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed my body. These days, when not much of anything else of me works so good, these hands hold me up, lay me down, and continue to fold together for my prayers. These hands have the marks and scars of where I've been as a testament to the ruggedness of my journeys in this life."
"But more importantly it will be these hands that The Creator will reach out to and take when he leads me across to his understanding. The Creator won't care about where these hands have been or what they have done. What The Creator will care about, is who these hands have helped along my life."
My friend, I have never looked at my hands the same again. I have not seen that Elder again after I left the creek that day, but I will never forget him and the message he spoke.
