Have you ever stopped to think about your hands? Just a palm and five fingers at the end of two
arms. As you look closer you see lines,
which are distinctive to each person who has hands and fingers. Hands are
amazing. How useful our hands are! And
yet we forget to appreciate them.
We use our hands for everyday trivial matters; combing our
hair, greeting a stranger, painting a picture, and to put words on a paper that
will be held as it is read. Hands have been involved in the cause and execution
of historical events… some of which have changed the world.
My father was a mechanic all of his life. He had permanent
stains in the folds of his knuckles, and in his fingerprints. No matter how
hard he scrubbed, the mark of a mechanic was there. His hands were rough and callused.
And he seemed to always have a sore or a cut caused from squeezing his hands into
a machine. And yet my father’s hands were healing hands. He would fix whatever ailments that vehicle
had, and he would do it with patience and care.
On the day they were wed, my Dad took my mother’s hands into
his and vowed to always be there for her, to help fix and heal whatever issues
came along.
On the day that my sister was born, and later myself… he
held our tiny bodies in his hands and promised to heal all of our hurts and
take care of us for as long as he lived.
As we grew, he did just that. He held our hands as we walked beside him. He
cared for our cuts, scrapes, and even the emotional bruises. I can recall so many
times that he would pat us on the shoulder and tell us that we were good kids
and he was proud of us. His hands, along
with his arms, would wrap around us as he would say that he loved us. We would
watch as he would take my mother into his arms to hug and kiss her at random
moments, “just because”.
As a little girl, I spent much of my time in the garage with
him. As I grew taller, I was able to reach the pedals and all the pretty little
knobs across the dash, which meant I could finally help him! When I could
finally stand next to the car and see into the belly of the beast that lies
under the hood... that’s when I was allowed to hold the flashlight in my hands,
and help Dad see what he was doing with his. And so he began to teach me how to
care for cars, the way he cared for them; teaching me that caring for a machine
meant that the machine would care for you.
Dad took my little hands into his, and guided them.
I can recall a time when we were camping and had taken a
4-wheel ATV with us. I was still quite small, but just tall enough to reach the
handlebars and the pedals… I was also old enough to recognize that the letters "S-T-A-R-T" meant that the engine would fire up. Dad used his hands to propel himself up and
out of the lawn chair that he was sitting in.
As children sometimes do, we continued to grow. When my
heart was broken by my first high school crush, it was my Daddy’s hand that
gently wiped the tear from my cheek reminding me that I would always be loved,
no matter what the world did to me.
As a teenager I remember our family vacations consisted of
road trips through the South. Dad’s hands would grip the steering wheel as he
guided the large RV on the interstate and mountain roads, while I sat next to
him, reading the map. As a family on vacation, touring museums and towns- I
would purposely walk behind my parents because seeing my parents holding each other’s
hand was my favorite view.
When I moved away from home, it was Daddy’s hands that took
mine and my mother’s as we prayed together before I left. And his hands would
wave in the air enthusiastically every time I returned for visits. Even as adults, daddy’s hands would continue
to frequently pat my sister and I on the shoulder and hug us as he told us that
he was proud of us and that he loved us.
In 2006, Dad went to the ER on Thanksgiving Day due to pain
that he believed was caused by kidney stones. The stones were there but there
was something more. Doctors discovered a
mass on his kidney and therefore removed his kidney later that day. But his
blood levels continued to show signs of cancer and Prostate Cancer was the next
to appear.
The Cancerous cells then metastasized and spread across his spine and skull. The Chemotherapy he was taking affected his nerves and sat him down in a
wheelchair for around a month. His only
complaint? He couldn’t reach the things that needed fixing.
It didn’t take long before Dad decided that he did not want
to live the rest of his life confined to a wheel chair, and he refused to continue the chemotherapy. As the chemicals cleared his body, his strength started to come back and he
was able to walk again. Everything
appeared to be well, but the threat of cancer was still very strong.
In February of this year, his hands began to grow weaker as
cancer took its toll. A stroke would be the reason he would no longer use his
right hand. We entered into the month of March with the knowledge that his
kidney (he only had one) was failing him. In mid-March, he took his final
breath as my mother, my aunt, and I stood beside him holding his hands.
An abundance of friends and family came to the funeral services
to show their love and support for my family and for my Dad. He had been an
important part of each of their lives and had been a guiding hand for so many.
I
walked beside my mother as she carried his urn through the cemetery that day. She
looked down at it with tears in her eyes as she said to me, “I get to hold him
one last time.”
Here is a song that my sister and I both love. "Daddy's Hands" by Holly Dunn.
