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Hands

I work in a nursinghome on a floor with demented as a caregiver. One day I was feeding one of the patients and these thoughts came to my mind that I will share here.

Emmy

Hands August 9, 2004

Old, wrinkled hands
thin, bony hands
that show thick veins

I hold them and caress them
they move me
these hands

Calloused hands
hard working hands
hands that could tell a lifestory
hands that have loved
hands that have prayed

hands that I respect

I gently squeeze these hands
and say a silent prayer before
I place them back on the blanket
and leave.

Hands

your hands - my hands - their hands - our hands -

hands tell the story of lived life

BEAUTIFUL POEM AND BEAUTIFUL RESPONSE

I am blessed to have read your poem, Emmy, and to see your response and photos, VeroniKA.

Thank you both so much for all you do for Heavenletters and the forums. You both take responsiblity for the good of all. You translate Heavenletters into your own language, and you speak to hearts on this forum and serve to keep it rolling along.

God bless you, angels.

With love,

Gloria

Hands

veroniKA these hands tell a story too, thank you for posting them...

Emmy

praying hands

The Praying Hands
Back in the Fifteenth Century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood.

Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of the elder children, Albrecht and Albert, had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financial! ly able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the academy.

After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy.

Then, when the brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines.

They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.

When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you."

All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated over and over, "No . . . no . . . no . no."

Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look, what four years in the mines have done to my ha nds! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, my brother ... for me it is too late."

More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. To pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the en! tire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."

The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one -- no one -- ever makes it alone!

I got this by Jennine
When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need.

Albrecht Durer

Nika,
Thanks so very much for posting this on my behalf.
Love to you & all,
Jennine
Love prevails.
I have all I need. I have no complaints whatsoever.
Quote:

The Praying Hands
The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one -- no one -- ever makes it alone!

I got this by Jennine
When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need.