The Hands of a Stranger

He was a very distiguished, older gentleman. He was balding, and gray, his face was weathered, but he was a big man, broad at the shoulders. I peeked my head into the boss's office and was greeted by the strantger's warm smile.

"George, meet Georgeann," my boss invited.

I reached my hand out for his and was encompassed in the biggest palm, soft and warm on the inside, firm on the outside. I started to take my hand away but couldn't resist the warmth and shoved it rightback into that cozy nest.

"George, you have the nicest hands. Warm and strong."
George just smiled as I pulled myself away.

"I didn't think about George anymore. I started to work at putting some office files together. A little while later they came out of the office.

"If you want to talk to her Georgeann, she's right here," I heard my boss say. I looked up from my files and George was standing there.

"My wife said that the reason she married me is because I have nice hands."

"I have to think that she must be a pretty smary lady then," I replied.

He stood there for a second without saying anything. I took a step closer knowing somehow that what he was going to say was painful. Maybe it was the look on his face.

"She's been gone now since October," he stammered. "She felt a little closer to me when you mentioned that about my hands. She always loved my hands."

I reached for his hand again.

"George, thank you for sharing that with me. You obviously love her very much."

I felt incompetent, little, inadequate against such a wave of emotion. We just stood there.

"Well, just wanted to tell you thanks for mentioning it. She felt a little closer to me when you did."

He smiled a shy, sad little smile and turned and walked away. I couldn't stop the tear from rolling down my cheek.

"Dear God," I prayed. "Give him comfort, as only You can."

"I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." - Matthew 20:20

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