My Grandmother's Hands

We buried my grandma today.  The crowd of friends and relatives that gathered both last night and today is testament to the many people that loved her.  In this post I will share a few pictures, plus the text of the talk that I gave at her funeral.

 

My grandma was truly the grandmother of all grandmothers—the kind that every child needs, and that I wish every child could have. We, her grandchildren, never had a single moment’s doubt that she loved us, thoroughly, deeply and fiercely. We could not help but love her back thoroughly, deeply and fiercely. My first memory of her, in fact, is one that involves grief over having to say goodbye to her. She had been visiting at our house for a week or more, and it was time for her to go. My three-year-old self could not bear it. Instead of hugging her and saying a proper goodbye, I ran in the opposite direction—back into the house, up the stairs and into my bedroom. There, I crawled underneath the bed, hid my face in my hands and sobbed, refusing to be comforted.

I thought of that memory a week ago Tuesday as we gathered around her bedside. Once again, I rebelled against the prospect of saying good-bye. Once again there were tears and deep grief. But this time I could not crawl underneath the bed. Instead I held her hand.

Struggling to find words to express my love and appreciation for her, I began to think about the beauty and the love contained in those hands of hers. Now many of you know that toward the end of her life, my grandmother’s hands were not objects of physical beauty. They were swollen, twisted, gnarled and discolored. They had lost most of their ability to feel, and they often betrayed her. But those hands were beautiful hands to me. For ninety years her hands had labored, and she was not about to let arthritis and poor circulation stop them. Many of you, I know, have enjoyed the fruits of those hands over the years. She could work circles around just about everyone. Stroking her hand as she took her last breaths, I considered just a few of the ways her hands had served those she loved.

--Hers were hands that turned apples into applesauce, pears into jam, and flour into pie crusts.

--They were hands that guided mine as I stood on a chair in her kitchen, and she taught me the proper way to whip cream.

--They also dug worms out of the soil and threaded them on hooks because her grandson liked to fish.

--Her hands kneaded dough and then shaped that dough into thousands of loaves, doughnuts, buns, and best of all for her great grandchildren, rolls. Cinnamon rolls, cornmeal rolls . . . I recalled with a smile that two of her great-grandaughters had eaten eight rolls in one sitting.

--Her hands were hands that baked cookies by the dozens, and bars by the panful. They flipped pancakes, whipped up soufflés and made caramel candy.

--They were hands that planted, cultivated and harvested fruits and vegetables, which she then preserved and used to prepare delicious dishes for others.  They graded and sorted apples for many years at the storage facility owned at the time by her husband, brother-in-law and nephews.

--Her hands, I recalled, patiently cared for my grandfather as Parkinsons destroyed his independence.

--My grandmother’s hands were hands that combatted dust and dirt with a vengeance—we often joked that dust didn’t stand a chance in her house. My father liked to run his finger along the top of her cabinets looking for dust. He never found any.

--They were hands that were particularly helpful when I had four young children. My grandma was in her eighties by that time, but her hands were as busy as ever.  They tackled my ironing pile, washed dishes at my sink, corralled rambunctious toddlers, tied shoelaces, held storybooks, patted babies’ backs, spooned applesauce into tiny mouths, and even scrubbed my kitchen floor when my back was turned

--They were hands, too, that loved to play. They held Uno cards and Candyland game pieces, put puzzles together and constructed words with bananagram tiles. “Make sure you bring Bananagrams,” should would remind my mother, and then joke that her goal was to keep Ruth’s mind sharp.

--My grandmother’s hands were also well known for the knitting and crocheting that she continued right up to the last weeks of her life. Many of you have been recipients of her beautiful sweaters, afghans, and throws.

                  As I stroked her hand one last time, I thought of the verses from Proverbs 31 about the hands of a virtuous woman. I would like to close with them: “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. . . . She seeketh wool, and flax and worketh willingly with her hands. . . . She riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household, . . . she layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff. She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idlesness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.”

Related Posts:

My Grandma visits Melbourne 

Remembering my Grandpa 

Comments

[Shanda]

It's inspiring to read about her very blessed life and the many many ways she used her life for good in her family. I want to be like her.
What you wrote and shared is beautiful, thoughtful, and full of grace.
Thinking of you as you grieve and adjust.

[Suzanne Pannelle]

Her caramels were the best- never tasted any quite so perfect as those. I am so sorry I missed her service. Thank you for sharing your talk. Wish I was there.
I think of her as I fold the afghan she made, nearly daily. After reading your text, I won't complain about having to re-fold it and put if back on the couch (since the kids can't seem to remember how) as it is a reminder of the wonderful woman who's hands created it.
Love you all

[Crystal Keller]

Christie my heart weeps with you as you bravely honor your grandma - beloved and beautifully remembered. Thanks for sharing this tribute on your blog. I am so deeply sorry it was time to say good-bye here but thanks be to God there will be another greeting with hugs and laughter and no more good-byes. Love you friend.