Holy Hands
Stories
Shining Moments
Visions Of The Holy In Ordinary Lives
David Michael Smith
Five years shy of a century, my grandfather, Oscar Bailey, felt old. Ironically, you would think that would be natural, but then again, you'd have to personally know Oscar. Old age and the man never meshed. It was as if he had discovered the fountain of youth, if not physically, then mentally, and would live forever.
Each summer he would plant a picturesque, weedless garden, comparable to the ones you'd see in the pages of Southern Living, each row perfectly straight, each cultivated plant colorful and leafy. He'd use a plumb line to insure accuracy, and plowed with a thirty-year-old rototiller, daily.
Well into his nineties you'd find him motoring all over the county in his Chevy, sharpening chainsaw blades, stacking wood, cleaning his chimney, visiting the barber, and mowing his own grass, often opting to use the push mower over the rider. He behaved like a man half his age, even younger, and always lived life to its fullest. But then, seemingly all at once, old age breathlessly caught him on the racetrack of life. With achy limbs and a bad back, plus a hazardous heart condition, he felt exhausted, depressed.
The plummet began two years prior when his beloved wife, my grandmother, Mildred, six years younger than her partner of seventy years, fell ill. On a cold winter's day in January, during a routine stop at the convenience store for a jug of milk, she collapsed without warning in the parking lot. She spent weeks in the hospital recuperating, but never fully recovered. Doctors could not pinpoint the root cause for the fall, but it was speculated she had suffered a minor stroke. At the same time, the stubborn symptoms of Alzheimer's began to manifest, along with other physical and mental infirmities. Mildred was sick, and she'd never be the way she was before.
For decades, the couple had lived happy, blessed lives, partly because they rose early, worked hard, ate well, avoided television, embraced honesty, defended America, made no enemies, and slept well. They were children of European immigrants, and the types of people who loved their country during both the rich and frail times.
Oscar had been a forester, now long retired, and could tell you every variety of plant and tree in the woods. He once hunted and fished alone from an old, wooden rowboat, but it had been years since he last cast his line. He made his own wine, from blackberries, blueberries, and purple grapes, and smoked a pipe for many years in the comforts of his old tin-roofed work shed.
For many years Mildred cooked every meal from scratch, often using the vegetables and fruits grown from their annual garden. She canned jams, relishes, and tomatoes. Every baked cake was homemade, and the icing, buttery rich in flavor.
The house was always spotless, the floors waxed and shiny. She was an avid duster, and swept the kitchen and porch floors at least three times a day, sometimes more. But those days were behind the elderly couple, now distant memories.
The same woman who once lived the life of Good Housekeeping's centerfold now spent most of her hours in bed with the covers pulled to her chin, sleeping in a dark, dreary room, even while the sun shone outside. Oscar woke her up to eat and take medication, but she seemed most comfortable alone and tucked away in solitude of her bedroom.
Oscar, for years the breadwinner, now became the jack and queen of all trades. Chores and duties long held by his wife became his responsibilities by default. He did the laundry, prepared the meals, handled the bills, and washed the dishes. But when you're 95, handling daily chores ardently takes a toll on your body and soul, especially with a woman around who doesn't always recognize you and is unpredictable in her behavior.
The couple received help from relatives, chiefly their daughter, Phyllis, who visited daily, bringing groceries and words of good cheer. Family members helped with running errands and doing yard work, but Oscar and Mildred were proud people, and came from a generation where help, even from loving family members, was considered a handout. That was generally unacceptable to a man and woman who initially refused to accept Social Security when they reached retirement age, since to them, that was money they had not worked to earn.
The subject of a retirement home was raised on occasion, but Oscar would have no part of the conversation.
"We have been in this house for years," he proudly proclaimed, "and we'll die in this house, not a 'home.' " He meant every word of it and despite the pitfalls of an elderly couple struggling with their aches and pains and ailments, the family honored their wishes.
Each day was a struggle, and one day things came to a head. Oscar was exhausted from a day of dealing with a woman whom he dearly loved, but was at the same time no longer that same woman he cared so deeply for. Working around the home had worn him out, and his body simply ached to the core. He felt like he'd run a marathon, and could barely move. Specifically, his back hurt beyond description, from his tailbone to his neck, every vertebrae throbbing with irritation and fatigue. How could he go on like this? He couldn't.
He collapsed against an ancient sofa in the shadowy living room as night cast a cloak upon the earth outside. Sitting there in a pool of pain and depression he reached around to rub his lower back, utterly spent of energy. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. He wondered with frustration from where his strength to survive would come, and he moaned a desperate prayer. He simply could not abandon his bride, the only woman he ever loved or could love. Then he felt two hands.
"Mildred, what on earth are you doing, woman?" he asked incredulously, surprised his wife had come out of her room at this late hour.
He turned around to face his wife, but she was not there. To his surprise, no one was there! Yet the presence of two hands upon his back remained, invisible, massaging hands, which clasped his with gentleness and love.
Oscar did not move, but not out of fear. He calmly faced the unseen visitor, then stared at his hands, but could see nothing. Sure, his eyesight wasn't what it had once been, but with his glasses, he could see very well. No one was with him. The room was empty of humankind. It was empty of any visible spirit form. But he felt the hands, the fingers and palms, of a man.
The presence massaged his hands in a merciful manner, slowly, and with care. Warm waves rushed through Oscar, radiating across his decrepit body, and he was comforted. For a few moments, the supernatural event continued, and the pains of his body and spirit were replaced by a deep, serene peace. It was at that moment he knew he was in the presence of his Lord, the Savior, who died for him two millenniums ago.
Jesus departed, and soon the aches and pains returned. But, Oscar knew he had been visited by God, and from the wordless exchange between earthly and holy hands, he knew that things were going to be all right.
Five years shy of a century, my grandfather, Oscar Bailey, felt old. Ironically, you would think that would be natural, but then again, you'd have to personally know Oscar. Old age and the man never meshed. It was as if he had discovered the fountain of youth, if not physically, then mentally, and would live forever.
Each summer he would plant a picturesque, weedless garden, comparable to the ones you'd see in the pages of Southern Living, each row perfectly straight, each cultivated plant colorful and leafy. He'd use a plumb line to insure accuracy, and plowed with a thirty-year-old rototiller, daily.
Well into his nineties you'd find him motoring all over the county in his Chevy, sharpening chainsaw blades, stacking wood, cleaning his chimney, visiting the barber, and mowing his own grass, often opting to use the push mower over the rider. He behaved like a man half his age, even younger, and always lived life to its fullest. But then, seemingly all at once, old age breathlessly caught him on the racetrack of life. With achy limbs and a bad back, plus a hazardous heart condition, he felt exhausted, depressed.
The plummet began two years prior when his beloved wife, my grandmother, Mildred, six years younger than her partner of seventy years, fell ill. On a cold winter's day in January, during a routine stop at the convenience store for a jug of milk, she collapsed without warning in the parking lot. She spent weeks in the hospital recuperating, but never fully recovered. Doctors could not pinpoint the root cause for the fall, but it was speculated she had suffered a minor stroke. At the same time, the stubborn symptoms of Alzheimer's began to manifest, along with other physical and mental infirmities. Mildred was sick, and she'd never be the way she was before.
For decades, the couple had lived happy, blessed lives, partly because they rose early, worked hard, ate well, avoided television, embraced honesty, defended America, made no enemies, and slept well. They were children of European immigrants, and the types of people who loved their country during both the rich and frail times.
Oscar had been a forester, now long retired, and could tell you every variety of plant and tree in the woods. He once hunted and fished alone from an old, wooden rowboat, but it had been years since he last cast his line. He made his own wine, from blackberries, blueberries, and purple grapes, and smoked a pipe for many years in the comforts of his old tin-roofed work shed.
For many years Mildred cooked every meal from scratch, often using the vegetables and fruits grown from their annual garden. She canned jams, relishes, and tomatoes. Every baked cake was homemade, and the icing, buttery rich in flavor.
The house was always spotless, the floors waxed and shiny. She was an avid duster, and swept the kitchen and porch floors at least three times a day, sometimes more. But those days were behind the elderly couple, now distant memories.
The same woman who once lived the life of Good Housekeeping's centerfold now spent most of her hours in bed with the covers pulled to her chin, sleeping in a dark, dreary room, even while the sun shone outside. Oscar woke her up to eat and take medication, but she seemed most comfortable alone and tucked away in solitude of her bedroom.
Oscar, for years the breadwinner, now became the jack and queen of all trades. Chores and duties long held by his wife became his responsibilities by default. He did the laundry, prepared the meals, handled the bills, and washed the dishes. But when you're 95, handling daily chores ardently takes a toll on your body and soul, especially with a woman around who doesn't always recognize you and is unpredictable in her behavior.
The couple received help from relatives, chiefly their daughter, Phyllis, who visited daily, bringing groceries and words of good cheer. Family members helped with running errands and doing yard work, but Oscar and Mildred were proud people, and came from a generation where help, even from loving family members, was considered a handout. That was generally unacceptable to a man and woman who initially refused to accept Social Security when they reached retirement age, since to them, that was money they had not worked to earn.
The subject of a retirement home was raised on occasion, but Oscar would have no part of the conversation.
"We have been in this house for years," he proudly proclaimed, "and we'll die in this house, not a 'home.' " He meant every word of it and despite the pitfalls of an elderly couple struggling with their aches and pains and ailments, the family honored their wishes.
Each day was a struggle, and one day things came to a head. Oscar was exhausted from a day of dealing with a woman whom he dearly loved, but was at the same time no longer that same woman he cared so deeply for. Working around the home had worn him out, and his body simply ached to the core. He felt like he'd run a marathon, and could barely move. Specifically, his back hurt beyond description, from his tailbone to his neck, every vertebrae throbbing with irritation and fatigue. How could he go on like this? He couldn't.
He collapsed against an ancient sofa in the shadowy living room as night cast a cloak upon the earth outside. Sitting there in a pool of pain and depression he reached around to rub his lower back, utterly spent of energy. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. He wondered with frustration from where his strength to survive would come, and he moaned a desperate prayer. He simply could not abandon his bride, the only woman he ever loved or could love. Then he felt two hands.
"Mildred, what on earth are you doing, woman?" he asked incredulously, surprised his wife had come out of her room at this late hour.
He turned around to face his wife, but she was not there. To his surprise, no one was there! Yet the presence of two hands upon his back remained, invisible, massaging hands, which clasped his with gentleness and love.
Oscar did not move, but not out of fear. He calmly faced the unseen visitor, then stared at his hands, but could see nothing. Sure, his eyesight wasn't what it had once been, but with his glasses, he could see very well. No one was with him. The room was empty of humankind. It was empty of any visible spirit form. But he felt the hands, the fingers and palms, of a man.
The presence massaged his hands in a merciful manner, slowly, and with care. Warm waves rushed through Oscar, radiating across his decrepit body, and he was comforted. For a few moments, the supernatural event continued, and the pains of his body and spirit were replaced by a deep, serene peace. It was at that moment he knew he was in the presence of his Lord, the Savior, who died for him two millenniums ago.
Jesus departed, and soon the aches and pains returned. But, Oscar knew he had been visited by God, and from the wordless exchange between earthly and holy hands, he knew that things were going to be all right.
