My Father's Hands

This Father's Day has had me thinking a lot about my Dad and, in my mind's eye, the most distinguishable characteristic of my father is his hands. Dad was born in 1925 and, in his 83 years of life, his hands have become an incredible measure of his life and faith. Let me explain:

In my Dad's lifetime he has driven horses and mules, which has much to do with explaining the curvature of his fingers. All you have to do is imagine the traces of the rigging's of a team of horses running through between the fingers of a young boy becoming a man on the farm and you can see why his fingers turn in such seemingly odd ways.

In my Dad's lifetime his hands have delivered calves and kittens with equal care. His hands have held the multitude of hammers which are a part of a farmers craft while building and repairing barns and sheds and they have, as deftly, held the handles of crowbars, pry-bars, sledge hammers and axes which have torn down outdated walls and buildings to make way for whatever the current age demanded.

In my Dad's lifetime his hands have turned the hand cranks on motors which powered tractors, cars and trucks, and, just as capably, his hands have been at the controls of everything from a Ford Model T to the modern combines and tractors which utilize 'touchscreen' technology for 'on the go' adjustments.

My Dad's hands have reached down to inspect an alfalfa leaf for aphids and leaf hoppers, carefully turning the leaf without disturbing the pest so that an accurate identification could occur, and, just as carefully, his hands have picked up his most recent great-granddaughter to hold her close so he could rock her to sleep in the love only a great-grandfather can offer.

My Dad's hands have paddled my bottom at those times when I crossed the lines of discipline and, just as firmly, his hands have pulled me close when most I needed to be reminded how loved I am and how close family always will be.

My Dad's hands have shoveled rock and gravel to fill in the holes left in dirt roads by rainy seasons and spinning tires and, just as surely, his hands have opened the Bible to scripture which has given him a foundation upon which his life continues to be built in every season and distress.

My Dad's hands have worked to build ponds, cisterns, and wells that water for livestock and human beings alike would be plentiful, and his hands have, as lovingly, been a part of the baptismal cycle of life which is met in the waters which flow in the Spirit over the heart of a newborns life.

My Dad's hands have taken hold of more than a few heavy loads and lifted them with the brute strength that a farmer's will and muscled body can abide and, just as powerfully, he has clasped his hands in prayer on a daily, even hourly basis, trusting God to meet every need, to share in every joy, and to be a part of his every decision.

My Dad's hands have cut the hair of all four of his boys, doing his best not to burn our necks with the clippers as they grew hotter with each passing minute he worked and, just as wonderfully, his hands have clasped ours in congratulations, never waiting for the heat of success to cool, always wanting to congratulate on goals accomplished and dreams achieved at the moment they occurred, desiring each of us to personally know how proud he is of us.

My Dad's hands have held the hands of my mother while they sat on the glider on the front porch of our home, together singing the sweet, sweet harmonies of the songs of love and faith, while the cool of a Summer's evening gathered our family into the moment along with the enveloping darkness and, just as tenderly, some years later, his hands held hers in comfort and assurance of unending love as Parkinson's did its worst and slowly silenced the music in her hands (which once had played the piano and organ) and, finally, the song which was in the heart of her living.

My Dad's hands have milked thousands of cows, baled hundreds of thousands of bales, and harvested acres upon acres of hay and corn silage. His hands have planted soybeans, corn, wheat, milo, grasses of every kind, trees, vegetables, flowers and shrubs. His hands have been enjoined with God's in the building of a home and the establishment of a family. His hands have tilled the soil of contours and terraces, while carving the waterways which prevent erosion and, in so doing, became a steward of God's household, a living witness to the nearness of the Kingdom.

My Dad's hands have labored over facts and figures as, carefully, he accounted for what his hard work had yielded and, just as carefully, his hands pushed the pencils which drew the future out for others, far beyond the ways and means of his own farm or life, but sharing fully and completely of God's gift in his life for creative conservation and shared responsibility in those organizations which shape a community and a country.

My Dad's hands have cranked the handles of many an ice-cream maker and, just as joyfully and skillfully, his hands have thrown horseshoes and softballs while celebrating the gift of friends and family with carefree abandon.

My Dad's hands have held the hands of friends and family in moments of grief and, just as resolutely, have been the hands that others have sought in wanting to share the load of wounded souls and broken hopes.

My Dad's hands are the hands I want my hands to become: The hands of God powerfully present in the care one child of God extends to another.

Though a Pastor's hands may never become as toughened and cracked and weathered as those of a farmer, I pray my hands become as wise and tender and faithful as those of my father, for I know in my heart of hearts, his hands are shaped by those of our Father in heaven and, in this son's humble estimation, there is no higher goal to seek, in heaven or on earth.

On this Father's Day, I pray my Dad's hands are the hands my hands become, that others might see God in me the way I see God in him.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don