It is 4:01am, and I woke up with my mind on my father. I miss him so very much. To have lost him, still blows my mind.
Today, my husband and I will drive a couple of hours away to celebrate the life of my father’s aunt. She is one of those people that I didn’t have much contact with but she affected my life in a huge way. My life wouldn’t have been complete without her in it. But as minds are, I know that with dawn looming on the day of her Memorial Service… the one person who was my connection to this beautiful lady…comes rising to the surface, begging to be thought of.
For some reason, my thoughts this morning are of his hands. They weren’t anything to look at, just hands. He used them to draft machinery, and then relied upon them to sometimes put together the drafted parts. I can clearly see him holding a pen in his hand, bouncing it back and forth toward the paper, having an idea of something to draw, or write, but it not yet be clear enough for him to lay down the first line.
Another habit he had when he was thinking, was to take his glasses in his hand and rub the stem on his tear duct… it might not seem much to you, but to me…such a fond memory.His hands, calloused from working and scarred with past lacerations, were continually doing.
He wasn’t always careful in his endeavors with his hands. Sometimes it was the object his hands came in contact with that suffered, and other times it was … his hands. He used his hands to dig a trench in the basement of our first home, to lay tile and then cement… in hopes that it wouldn’t flood. He helped scrape “gouges” in the plaster at our first home as he quickly ran the wallpaper scraper across the wall. (gouges that later needed mud to even out the walls.)He had a scar on one finger from a nail piercing though when he was repairing a fence. He pulled two planks of the fence apart (that were nailed together), only to let go before removing his hand. When the two pieces slammed back together, his hand was pinned in between with a nail through his finger.
He had many cuts and scrapes from remodeling the church or house, putting in carpet, adding additions on to his cabin. But he was always very matter-of-fact when he would hurt himself, never hysterics… just find whatever was needed to take care of it, and go about your business. I honestly don’t remember him heading to the ER or clinic for much, if anything. It just wasn’t his focus. He needed to get things done.
He didn’t like to sit idle. He had to be working with his hands.
But there was this other side of these hands… that wasn’t about the labor but was about the LOVE. I can vividly picture his hands. The way his fingers were formed, the way they felt. I can remember him holding my hand, even as an adult to encourage or comfort me.
And, when I think of how often he anointed his hands to pray for others… it does something to my heart. Those calloused and scarred hands, those hands that were able to draft machinery, erect buildings, and construct pretty much anything he purposed to do… they were also anointed hands that laid upon heads of ministry and saints.
I feel so blessed to have these memories! They are mine to hold, so many memories that I can’t even begin to tell them all. I can replay them in my mind, and just remember the feel of my daddy’s hands. 🙂 Thank you, God for the ability to remember… and thank you for such an inheritance. I had a special daddy!