“Hands....”

The young teenage girl sat in the booth of the Coffee Kettle trying to hold back the tears. Her heart was broken because she felt like a failure. A failure of a daughter. A failure of being a human being. 

The pain of rejection was overwhelming.

As she sat there, miserable and feeling so alone, she felt something softly cover her hand. She looked up to see her dads hand covering her own. She continued to look up even further until she was looking in his eyes...and he said very softly “It’s all going to be okay.” 

And she believed him. 

She loved that hand that had covered her own. 

It was rather square and calloused. Rough from years of hard labor. But it was strong; and it could administer correction as well as comfort.

I know, because that hand belonged to my dad. 

“The precision of the human hand allows fathers and grandfathers to do all the things they are known to do.”

”My father’s hand was an absolute marvel—it had to be, because it was modeled exactly after his Father’s hand (Genesis 1:27). Not just his biological father—but the Father of all mankind: God. God the Father, through Jesus Christ, formed (or molded and designed) the first man Adam. He equipped Adam with two amazingly capable and flexible hands; then He told him to use them to tend the Garden of Eden.

Intricately designed

The hand God designed consists, in part, of 29 bones and 29 major joints. It contains 34 muscles that move the fingers and the thumb (causing them to work together or in opposition) and 30 named arteries. Its actions are dictated by directives from the brain.

These biological details allow fathers to do what they do with their hands.

My dad’s hands could twist a wrench tightly......pinch and remove a splinter from my foot and grasp my little hand as I learned to walk. He could run electrical wire through an house and twist and turn and get into every small crevice of that house. He had no problem getting his hands dirty and have no thought to picking up a small child who outstretched their little hands up to his.

Whatever he thought, his hands would do....they did. 

Over the years.....specifically the last 2....I have watched those hands slightly wither. 

Become more frail. 

As I sat at the hospital this last Tuesday night, I watched those hands. 

I watched as they got stuck by needle after needle. I watched as they picked up a cup that had 10 or so pills in it and take them. 

And I began to understand something. 

A transition has happened that I didn’t even see....I didn’t feel it. There was no changing of the hands ceremony....no big presentation. 

It just happened without me even realizing it. 

My dad has always held my hand and assured me everything was going to be okay.....but now I’m the one holding his hand....assuring him everything is going to be okay. 

The big strong burly hand that had always carried me through my toughest times....now needed someone to carry him through his toughest times. 

It’s a parents job to always teach us. 

At each stage of our life....we are learning something. 

And even though he doesn’t know it....he’s teaching me through his grace. 

Those hands have been poked and prodded....but they still grasp onto mine and I’m instantly transported back to being a little girl needing my daddy. 

Sometime during the Summer, I took him to his Drs. Appointment at the Cancer Center. I, once again, watched them poke those gently hands and take blood. 

Once we were seated in the room waiting on the Dr to come in....I had a question I had been wanting to ask but kept holding off. 

I said “Daddy, do you ever get angry? I mean, you’ve been through more than one man should....and you still have a smile on your face. You’ve got to get angry sometimes, right?” 

And his response is one that still renders me speechless. 

He said “Yes baby, I do. But what is anger going to bring me? I have my days like anyone else. I get mad....And sad....but at the end of the day I know what I have to live for.” 

And I asked him what was that. 

He reached those now soft, beaten, fragile pale hands over and grasped mine....gave it a little squeeze and he said “My family.” 

Some days are good. 

Some days are really good. 

Some days are tougher than others. 

Some days we are all just barely getting by. 

I never know what each day is going to hold....I can only hope and pray that he draws as much comfort from my hands as I do from his. 

And it’s an honor to hold the mans hands who have always held mine and say “Everything is going to okay, Daddy.” 

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