I imagine my daddy’s hands holding me for the first time.  “It’s a girl!” rang out over the phones and waiting room over 48 years ago.  I can visualize the scene and the youth of my father.  I picture him young and strong, yet unsure how baby number five will be raised midst four boys.  What will we do with a girl? I wonder if my body, so tiny and helpless feels the strength and wisdom in his hands as he holds me for the first time.  How I wish I could feel that”first time”.

A little girl nestles into this bunch.  As all children grow they need discipline, and the hand of my father is swift and steady.  How strong his hand on my shoulder guiding me.  How solid his hand on my skin to set boundaries. No discipline at the time seems good, but, as an adult, how grateful I am he cared enough to reason and to act.

Coming home from school with my heart broken, I learn that my daddy’s hands are gentle on my face wiping tears.  His hands around the small of my back in an embrace brings hope and reassurance.  My face in his sturdy chest, and the smell of him brings me confidence.  The same hands fold in prayer and offer grace and surrender to our Heavenly Father for guidance and direction.  Faithful hands.

Sitting in church as a child I would snuggle close to him and grab one of his hands and place it on my lap.  His hand would speak stories to me in my mind.  I traced each line and pulled at the skin as it slowly shrink back–the years were there.  The slowness of the stretch of his skin was a reminder to slow down–life is short and we have so much to share.  His hands were always warm and inviting.  My daddy’s hands were enormous next to mine–they covered my fears and always seemed to communicate “all is well”.

His aging hands are fragile, yet they are filled with greater strength from years of  wisdom and Godly influence.

His hand grips a cane to help him walk this last chapter of life.  They still amaze me and beckon me back to childhood sitting on a pew with my daddy, his hand in my lap, and my heart in his hands.  His hands have taught me to worship, to pray, and to love.  His hands guided me to the Father’s hands that were pierced to bring me life.  His wounds are my perfect healing.

I am a blessed child to have such wonderful fathers who gave their hands for me.

from my daddy
A time ago I held my daughter in hands that were trembling for joy. Now my daughter’s hands steady a fathers hands that tremble with age. It causes my hands to tremble with joy as I realize we are all held in The Master’s hands. Nail scared hands that remind us of His great love for us. Thank you Anna for making Father’s day a remembrance of God’s gift of Anna Louise, my red head beauty within and without.
from Harvey
Dad thanks for the journey and the courage you showed me in following Christ. Your hands may be old but still have the wisdom of the spirit. Happy Father’s Day.