In my last post I shared about my mother’s hands so it only seems fitting to write about my father’s this week. Sadly, he died before we had much time together as adults, yet his presence in my life left indelible imprints.
My father’s hands were those of a laborer, a craftsman, a creative soul. His love for fresh garden produce meant I learned how to wield a hoe and tiller early on. In turn, my beloved and I have grown our own vegetables and fruits from our first days of marriage. Nothing tastes better than a handful of juicy, sun-ripened strawberries.
My father’s hands helped me hold my first fishing pole, a size-appropriate bamboo rod with a golf-ball size red and white bobber on the end. Not crazy about wiggly worms, I somehow managed to leave most of the live bait threading to him. During the winter months we’d spend hours making rubber baits and attaching metal weights to thin lengths of wire.
My father’s hands taught me how to glaze a window, cut a straight edge on a board, and pound a nail without smashing a finger. [Most of the time.] On other occasions, we’d have our heads together under the hood of his older, always well-maintained vehicle in order to gap the spark plugs.
My father’s hands also modeled for me what it meant to be a writer and published author. Day-after-day he’d come home from his first shift job at the factory, make a pot of coffee, and sit in his favorite chair with a long yellow pad. A handful of pencils nearby, he’d write. And write. And write. When I flourished in English and creative writing in high school, his unabashed support and encouragement made all the difference.
My father was a troubled soul and struggled with alcoholism his entire adult life, yet I knew he was unhappier with himself and his behavior than any of us would ever imagine. While I had to focus on the darker aspects of his life for a season in order to heal from the consequences of his choices and actions, I will forever be grateful for all the good he gave to me.
How do you feel about hands? Yours? Those of someone close to you?
If hands have been the bearer of pain more than joy, can you seek God as well as qualified professionals to help you heal?
