Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking, he said in a clear strong voice. I didn't mean to disturb you, Dad, but you were just sitting there staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were alright.
"Have you ever looked at your hands?" he asked. "I mean really looked at your hands?"
Dad smiled and related this story: "Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life."
After that day, I will never look at my hands the same again.
But I remember God reached out and took my Dad's hands and led him home. When my hands are hurt of sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of Dad. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God.