My father’s hands

Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” Luke 23:46

Hands are such a personal thing. Hands reach out to hold the ones we love, to hold the ones we are losing and to serve those who needs us. Hands are a touch, a blessing, a remarkable way of physically showing we care…we are secure.

I remember sitting in church with my father and holding his hand. My Dad had large hands and they were tanned and strong. Even as a small child, I knew his hands were special because they belonged to my Dad. They belonged to me. I felt safe and protected and loved.

It was my Dad’s hands that picked me up when I fell, his hands that taught me to swim, his hands that walked me down the aisle on my wedding day and held my babies. I remember every inch of his hands and I remember the joy they brought to me.

When my Dad was dying, I held his hand. I don’t think he knew I was there but it didn’t matter. The touch of a loved one transcends so many things – even the power of death. I held his hand and kissed it after he passed. It was a personal goodbye and seemed so perfect as I turned my Dad over to a Father who waited for him. I am certain the first thing my Dad touched was the loving hands of his savior and that comforts me.

To imagine nail scarred hands reaching out for my Dad is beyond my wildest dreams and yet I am certain it was so. What a day of rejoicing that must have been.


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