HIGH BUTTON SHOE

Dedicated to Herman E. and Inez Christine Byers for without them...we wouldn't be...

She wore age so gracefully, so carelessly, that there was a sacred beauty about her faded cheek more lovely and lovable than all the bloom of her youth. Happy woman...who was not afraid of growing old. ~Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

WILDFLOWERS

There is no family tree, it’s more like a field of wild flowers where the butterflies carry the pollen and new flowers bloom each year.

From the foothills, mountains & rolling fields of the Kentucky we call home; the soil from the coal blackened earth sprouted a field of dreams.

Into this field, through blood, marriage or friendship the wild flowers grew one by one and reached out their creeping vines in love and friendship to find other flowers.

The flowers each stand alone, and the newest flowers catch only glimpses of the mighty old sunflowers, but the butterflies still carry the new seeds and the vines creep to embrace other flowers.

~Anne King

Grandpa's Hands

Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence.

I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK.

He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. " Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking" he said in a clear strong voice.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands, and I wanted to make sure you were OK" I explained to him.

"Have you ever looked at your hands? " he asked. "I mean really looked at your hands?" I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he was making.

Grandpa smiled and related this story: "Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and walked my daughter down the aisle. Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ."

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandpa's hands and led him home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think of my grandpa. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face. ~unknown

Please take the time to remember....we love you Herm and Inez...we will never forget.

Picture of Ron and his dad Herman