From a Christian perspective, the phrase "my father's hands" becomes a double entendre referring to a biological father and a heavenly Father. In this instance, however, I am speaking of my biological father's hands.Like most people, I do not have a very large number of memories from my earliest years. One sensation that has remained with me, though, is the feel of my father's hands wrapped around my own. My father was a carpenter before he became a pastor. He also rides and works with motorcycles and motorized vehicles of all kinds. As such, his hands are very rough, wrinkled, and coarse. To me, though, my father's hands communicate love more than possibly any other physical thing I have ever known. I cannot even fully describe why this is the case. The most logical explanation I can give is that I can remember the feel of his hands from the time I was a very small child.
Once, a few years ago, I saw an old picture of my dad - taken before I was born, he was standing outside and holding my older sister's hand (see the photo on the left). I studied my dad's appearance and noted all the physical differences that had naturally taken place over the course of the years. But I remember that, more than anything, I was struck with the appearance of his hands. They looked exactly the same! And I remember thinking, "Those are my father's hands!" It almost felt symbolic to me, connecting the person in that picture - the younger version of my dad that I barely knew - with the father I know and love so well today. It was the one aspect of the picture that seemed completely unchanged.
In my mind, I thought of all the times growing up that I remembered specifically my father's hands: when he held my hand as I was learning to walk, when he tossed me up in the air and caught me again as a little girl, when he disciplined me all through my growing up years, when he hugged me, when we were out walking and he just held my hand because he wanted to. All these memories flooding my mind of my father and of the love and security I felt holding his hands.
I have always loved that my dad's hands are rough. It is a constant reminder of how hard he works, of the active person he is, and of his love of the outdoors. His hands are strong too and I have always loved that reminder of his strength - both physical and moral. He is always there when I need him. I remember that, as a little girl, I would take an instant distrust of a man with soft hands. To me, it meant that that man didn't work hard and was much weaker than my father. When I was a pre-teen, I remember my dad telling me one day to never trust a man with soft hands. I laughed at the time, because I knew that I had already intuitively picked that up. Even as a child, I had learned to compare every man with the best male role model I had - my father.
I love my father who has held me, guided me, and loved me for almost nineteen years! And I love my father's hands that symbolize so much in the mind of this little girl now grown up.
