Readers, I’m sharing a story that moved me and certainly tugged at my heartstrings. It reminded me of my own father who recently turned 80 years young and is very physically active. His walking/jogging buddies at Bill Schupp Park who will attest to this.
My father’s hands are rugged and often chapped because they are in constant use with house repairs, gardening, and unending countless other activities. He’s always lending a hand with repairs at my own home and my sister’s home.
As an example, one of my tall palms on my front yard had died and I had asked his advice about having someone cut it down. Instead, he decided to take on the project himself. Just short of an hour and a half later, the palm was transformed into a pile of wood and dead branches. Now mind you, this palm stood at least 20-feet tall and its trunk was at least 14 inches in circumference. It never had a chance!
I hope you enjoy the following story titled, “A Father’s Hands.”
My Dad, some 90-plus years now, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn’t move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. I sat down beside him. He didn’t acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if he was okay.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was okay. 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, Dad, but you were just sitting there staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were alright.
“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.
Dad 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 dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life. They wiped my tears when my son went off to war.”
“They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold you as a newborn daughter. 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. 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, 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 on 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.” —-
After that day, I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Dad’s hands and led him home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of Dad. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God.
Personally, I’m thankful for my father’s love. He never faltered with his commitment to myself and my brothers and sisters, but instead held steadfast even under the most difficult and challenging circumstances. God bless all fathers!
Mary Garza Cummings is a free-lance writer. If you have comments, email firstname.lastname@example.org