Those who know me best, know that I have this weird fascination with hands. In my love of photography, I sometimes use hands to symbolically grab a moment. Hands teach me stories about people, their walks of life and especially their souls. Today, is my dad's 83rd birthday...so it seems only fitting that I write about his hands.
My dad's hands were the first to hold me, they played with me, they touched me, they protected me, they dried my tears...they changed my diapers??? Hmmm...I seriously doubt that one. Still today, his hands hug me, hold me and my absolute favorite...he holds my hand. I love holding hands.
Many times as a little girl, I noticed his hands. They seemed SO big. They were rough and rugged...a "real man's hands." They symbolized strength and security so many times...at times when I felt so insecure with who I was. His hands protected me from harm; he was my Inigo Montoya or my "knight in shining armor."
In the mornings, in the deadly heat of summer and bitter cold of winter, I would watch my dad leave for his construction work only to return home...so exhausted from a long, hard day. He was so thankful to come home. I would again notice his hands. They were bleeding, cracked, dry, swollen, bruised, scarred and throbbing in pain. I never once heard him complain. Yet, I knew on the inside he was hurting. My heart hurt for him...but I was so thankful for his hands that provided for our family. After dinner in the quiet, I watched him resting in his chair holding the newspaper with those hands. If I feared interrupting him, I'd push past my fears and ask him if we could talk...in a SNAP his hands put down that newspaper. I had him for a time.
Most of all, my dad has taught me SO much about God's love. Dad's hands remind me of Jesus' hands. All that He suffered, He suffered for me...for us...because He loves us so deeply. Never once did He suffer for any other reason other than His great love. Bingo.
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