Worn-Out Hands by Christian Union

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Nov 4, 1886

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 12, No. 42.

Worn-Out Hands.

By Christian Union

WE can see them every day. Poor, worn-out hands, trembling, wrinkled, and unsightly; yet to me how beautiful they are! They have done so much. Their loving work began in infancy. That was many, many years ago, when they, too, were dimpled and white. What tiny hands they were then!

But we find it hard to believe that grandma ever was a baby. We can hardly picture her in the dainty robes she must have worn. Still she had her little niche in the happy household, and she filled it after her own perfect baby fashion. Father and mother both felt the tender touch of her soft, caressing fingers. The former went forth to his daily toil with renewed strength and courage, and the latter's added duties only seemed to grow lighter as the days flew by.

Baby grew fast. A few years later, what busy little hands she had! They were thrust into everything, and if destruction followed, "helping mamma" was the sweet excuse which always shielded their pretty owner. But soon they were a help indeed; always willing and ready. Ah, what dear hands they were!

And they were destined to become still dearer. Only a few more years, and then an impatient lover had circled one slender finger with a golden engagement ring. They seemed the warmest hands he had ever clasped. Love was the only matchmaker and their marriage quickly followed. Charles would have his way. How they missed her—father, mother, brothers, and sisters—when those same dear hands had vanished to deftly make ready the new home nest! They beautified it until the proud young husband thought there could be no lovelier spot in all the wide, wide world.

Another year; they were mother-hands then, and their real life-work had just begun, and, if possible, they were more diligent than ever before. They even found time for other work outside the little home. The needy, sick, and afflicted were helped in a thousand different ways. They were benevolent hands.

And years of peace, happiness, and prosperity were given them in return. Twice had the cozy home been enlarged; the loved faces God had sent filled it to overflowing.

After a time one left it, never to return. How the patient, pitying mother-hands hovered round that dear one in the last sad hour! They tremblingly closed the sightless eyes, gathered sweet, fresh roses to lay on the downy pillow, tenderly raised the coffin-lid for one last look, and finally planted vines and flowers on the newly-made grave. After that the home work went on as usual only there was one less to do for. How strange it seemed!

One by one the others left her side; the boys to make their way in the great Babylon called town, and the girls to exchange the old home for new ones here and there. So mother's hands fondly prepared each outfit as it was needed; knitting stockings and making bridal robes were all the same to her.

Then, after thirty years of earnest, loving toil, her tired hands took a little needed rest. All the children had gone from her. There was only husband to care for now, and his wants were so few in comparison with what theirs had been! Her tender, wifely hands often lingered lovingly on his head. Poor Charles! his once thick, black hair was now thin and gray. He was growing old; but surely he was now dearer than ever. The children could live without her. As in the beginning, he was again her all.

But ten years later he was taken from her.

Oh, the agony of that parting! His dying kiss fell on the dear, tear-wet hands that had always scattered flowers along his life-path. They fashioned his shroud. She would not suffer a strange hand to perform that last sad service. Soon he peacefully slept in the little village church-yard, and she was all alone in the old nest. How empty it was! Her hands were quite idle now. No work to do, no loved ones to wait upon. Only self left.

At her tearful request, one child, a daughter, returned, bringing with her five fatherless little ones. Then grandma gladly took up the broken threads of her life-work. There was still so much to be done. It seemed as though all her own children were back again. She knew just what to do for them. Their many childish wants and necessities were to her an open book, which she read with delight. Little Charles was grandpa's namesake. How she loved the bonny boy!

But at last the grandchildren left home, just as her own had done. Grandma's loving farewell followed them like a blessing. They can never forget her.

She is almost ninety now. There she sits in the roomy rocking chair in which dear grandpa died thirty long years ago. Her work is all done.

Poor, worn-out hands! Age and disease have crippled them, but they are not unsightly. No, no! Some day they will be folded, cold and white, upon her quiet breast; and the sweet rest of the weary will be hers at last.