I remember her hands as she deftly sliced peaches for our vanilla ice cream.
I remember her hands cracking the pecans that our small tribe of grandchildren had collected from beneath her giant pecan tree.
I remember her hands as she expertly guided fabric on the ends of crochet needles that summer she taught me how to crochet.
I remember her hands when they held me close right before we left her for the long journey home.
I remember her hands when she lifted the ever-present carton of rainbow sherbet out of her freezer to portion out to suddenly ravenous children.
I remember her hands:
at bath-time wrapping me in a towel,
in the summer lifting us from the kiddie pool,
during prayer while we sang before dinner
when she signed my ordination certificate.
I remember her hands.
She was more than just hands, of course. She was wholly herself, hands and feet and beauty and brains and laughter and tears, my grandma, your mother, your wife, your friend. She was more than the sum of her parts, either visible or invisible. She was more. But today, I remember her hands, the hands that loved and guided and chastised and provided and encouraged and prayed and typed and quilted. We are gathered together in this place to remember her, to rejoice in her resurrection, to grieve her loss. But mostly, today, I remember her hands: wishing I had held them one more time, thankful I was able to hold them at all, humbled by all the good they did for God.
Deuteronomy says “The LORD your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands.” Today, I am quite sure he was speaking of my grandma because all I can remember is the work of her hands.