ShareWIK.com

Dad’s hands reaching down to me when I was a little girl.  These hands comforted me, strong, large and firm.  Leading me. Dad’s hands, swung me, carried me, tickled me, tossed me, held me.  Quick hands which hid coins and made them appear again behind my ear.  These hands played the ukelele, a matchbook for his pick.  These hands mowed, raked, planted.

Roses and I, fertilized and pruned by these hands.  Wringing hands as I rebelled. Teen years; hands taught me to drive, how to hold a football, a glove and a bat.  Hands which held Mom’s.  Dancing hands, protecting hands, guarding hands.

This is how a gentleman treats a woman, hands which held doors and opened doors.  Hands which brought a red rose for our dates post college.  Hands that picked up sea shells from the sand and stones from the lake.  Prayer book picked up by his hands, smile cards given away.  Hands that led me down the aisle on my wedding day.

Dad’s hands are smaller, translucent and soft this eve of Christmas.  Holding these hands I find comfort, love and peace, still.  My hands often hold his hands tight.  My hands do not want to let go.  I need these hands to lend their wisdom, still.  Can you feel my pleading, longing hands that refuse to bid ado?  My hands will pat a bit of after shave, brush your hair, hold water and a straw to your lips, walk with you in the halls.  My hands want to find peace, and healing and comfort for you Dad.

Dad will see His hands outstretched in the light of the sun. Dad has known His hands all of his life. The trials, they have led Him, to know His hands. They have sustained him.  Dad has been His hands to me.  Dad has shown his daughter The Father through his hands.  Do I let you go, can I let you go?  My hands know that this is his purpose and his homecoming.  Surrender his hands to Him, smiling at His son.