Helping Hands

A few months back I had the honor of holding my grandmother's hands, as she waited patiently to pass from her earthly life to her eternal life. I use the word honor, because truly, it was one of the great privileges of my life. As my grandmother's strong body lye still, void of its' ability to verbally communicate, it was her hands that spoke for her. Waiting to pass from this earthly realm, we sat, held hands and communicated. Looking at her hands I couldn’t help but be amazed at the physical strength they possessed.  Her grip was like a vice.  Up until her dying day, her hands were so strong.  Hands soft to the touch; reminding me of all the mothers and babies she cared for in her younger years as a delivery charge nurse.  Capable, productive hands.  Hands that sewed clothes from scratch, planted, harvested and stored food that fed families for generations. Gnarly hands that weathered years of arthritis.  Purposfilled hands. Hands that until her last living months stuffed Sock Monkeys, created Raggedy Anne & Andy Dolls and sewed Linus blankets; all for all others.  All in the name and honor of her God.  As she would remind her family: "Faith without works, is dead." She was the  Proverbs 31 woman.  "Many hands make light work,"  make me think of her, as she was such a worker.  Last year as we marked her 95th birthday dinner with pizza and salad ("why all the fuss?" she quipped) I wonder if I would have lingered a little longer with her, had I'd known it would be her last.  Thankfully, I don't typically live my life looking back with regrets.  Without a shadow of a doubt, I know she knew my deep and profound love for her.  To imply she was perfect would be a sin.  She was not.  But she was pretty close in my eyes. 

In honor of my grandmother, Mary Pleskach Roye, 12/19/15- 9/27/11