The world is on fire! Hell has froze over!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
all my kiddos updated their blogs........ oh my God........
How very very cool......... thanks.. kiddos...
haha.. love you all....
See I would not be able to wish Grandpa Roy Blankinship a Happy Belated Birthday, if Heather had not posted.... So HAPPY BIRTHDAY... Grandpa Roy!!!! Sorry to be late......
And Poor Randi, She must be in really bad shape today and in need of rest... after working so hard all weekend... hehe and then Phil, and his friend Randy... Those two can think up more ways to skin a cat, than anyone I know.. ... smiling...
And you know what, Andrew is not only growing like a weed, he is cool and super smart... He knows Madison doesn't need her ears pierced ... too! Andrew, you da man!! haha.....
Love you all.... enjoy the day! We are richly blessed!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Grandpa's Hands, from Randi Moffat
Grandpa's Hands
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.
He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands.
When I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and
the longer I sat I wondered if he was OK.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check
on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK. He raised
his head and looked at me and smiled. Yes, I'm fine, thank you
for asking, he said in a clear strong voice.
I didn't mean to disturb you, grandpa, but you were just sitting
here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK
I explained to him.
Have you ever looked at your hands he asked? I mean really
looked at your hands?
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them
over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never
really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he
was making.
Grandpa 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.
They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon
the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As
a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my
shoes and pulled on my boots.
They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my
life.
They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war.
They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was
married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home
and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and
walked my daughter down the aisle.
Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a
foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot. They
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 the rest of my body.
They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.
And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real
well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to
old in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and
the ruggedness of my life.
But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach
out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will
lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the
face of Christ.
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God
reached out and took my grandpa's hands and led him home. When
my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my
children and wife I thank grandpa. I know he has been stroked
and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch
the face of God and feel his hands upon my face.
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.
He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands.
When I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and
the longer I sat I wondered if he was OK.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check
on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK. He raised
his head and looked at me and smiled. Yes, I'm fine, thank you
for asking, he said in a clear strong voice.
I didn't mean to disturb you, grandpa, but you were just sitting
here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK
I explained to him.
Have you ever looked at your hands he asked? I mean really
looked at your hands?
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them
over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never
really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he
was making.
Grandpa 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.
They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon
the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As
a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my
shoes and pulled on my boots.
They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my
life.
They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war.
They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was
married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home
and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and
walked my daughter down the aisle.
Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a
foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot. They
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 the rest of my body.
They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.
And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real
well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to
old in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and
the ruggedness of my life.
But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach
out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will
lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the
face of Christ.
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God
reached out and took my grandpa's hands and led him home. When
my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my
children and wife I thank grandpa. I know he has been stroked
and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch
the face of God and feel his hands upon my face.
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