Over the holidays I attended the funeral service for one of my dear friend's father. He passed on Christmas day which was terribly sad. When she gave the eulogy though she said that only "very special people get to go to heaven on Christmas day." I really wish that she and her family did not have to go through that pain, but we will all go through it at some point. My heart, my thoughts, and my prayers will continue to go out to her as I know it will be awhile before life feels normal again.
I was deeply moved by the memories she had of her father and it brought back some of my own. My dad died 12 years ago today. My friend talked about her father's hands and how they were the hands of a working man. I too think about my dad's hands. He was a farmer and a carpenter. He had big, strong, rough hands. Sometimes he had cuts or a blackened fingernail. They were often stained with iodine which he put on any wound. I loved those hands. He used to them to work, to build and create things as big as a house or as small as a doll cradle. He used those hands to rub a little girl's tummy when it hurt or massage out a leg cramp. He waved those hands around when he was talking. He used those hands to ride a horse, drive a tractor, shoot a gun, pet a dog, grade tobacco, fix a car, tickle his daughter, swing a hammer, chop wood, and pat his sons on the back or grab them by the scruff of the neck (whichever they deserved more). He used those hands to pick wildflowers for his wife and to help a friend in need. Those were marvelous hands, talented hands. Those hands built my loft bed and pulled me into a hug when I left for college. Those hands gave mine a squeeze to calm me as he walked me down the aisle the day I got married. I really miss those hands.
Holly Dunn sang a song called "Daddy's Hands." The chorus goes like this:
I was deeply moved by the memories she had of her father and it brought back some of my own. My dad died 12 years ago today. My friend talked about her father's hands and how they were the hands of a working man. I too think about my dad's hands. He was a farmer and a carpenter. He had big, strong, rough hands. Sometimes he had cuts or a blackened fingernail. They were often stained with iodine which he put on any wound. I loved those hands. He used to them to work, to build and create things as big as a house or as small as a doll cradle. He used those hands to rub a little girl's tummy when it hurt or massage out a leg cramp. He waved those hands around when he was talking. He used those hands to ride a horse, drive a tractor, shoot a gun, pet a dog, grade tobacco, fix a car, tickle his daughter, swing a hammer, chop wood, and pat his sons on the back or grab them by the scruff of the neck (whichever they deserved more). He used those hands to pick wildflowers for his wife and to help a friend in need. Those were marvelous hands, talented hands. Those hands built my loft bed and pulled me into a hug when I left for college. Those hands gave mine a squeeze to calm me as he walked me down the aisle the day I got married. I really miss those hands.
Holly Dunn sang a song called "Daddy's Hands." The chorus goes like this:
Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin'
Daddy' hands were hard as steel when I'd done wrong
Daddy's hands weren't always gentle but I've come to understand
There was always love in daddy's hands.
Those words sum up my dad's hands and I suspect the hands of many other fathers. If your father is still with you use your hands to give him a call or a hug. If he is not then use your hands to honor him by helping someone else.
Love you daddy.
