My father had unique hands.
A gene mutation
created a rare deformity
in his fingers.
Maybe that is why Dad’s
hands were
so noticeable
But that isn’t what made
them unique to me.
Three years
after his death,
I can still close my eyes and recall
the feel of the callouses on his hands
brushing against my skin.
You felt the bones
of them,
the Strength.
Dad could convey
immediate warmth,
acceptance,
and safety
through those hands.
Once, when traveling
as a missionary
in a foreign country,
bandits jumped into
the back seat of his unlocked car
while he was stopped
by the side of the road,
searching a map.
One thug took Mom’s purse.
She ran after him. That was Mom’s way.
Another reached for the glove box.
Dad reached out to stop the thief, maybe to negotiate.
That was Dad’s way.
The keys to their home were inside.
The thief
slashed Dad’s hand
with a knife.
And when Mom returned from her fruitless chase
she found him bleeding and very worried.
The recovery
was long and painful.
He was not one to use his hands
for harm.
He could never understand
why anyone would.
Dad used his hands
his entire life to build,
to create,
to heal,
to encourage,
and to love.
When I was a little girl
and had stomach flu,
he’d put one hand on my forehead
and another
around my waist
to support me
while I stood over the toilet.
His hands
were cool
against my feverish
forehead.
He said nothing.
He just held me,
safe,
until the retching stopped.
My favorite
place to watch
Dad’s hands at work
was in his woodshop.
I loved the fragrance
of the pine and cedar chips
as the shavings
curled away
from a piece of wood
when he used
his hand plane,
or turned wood
on his lathe.
Dad almost always had
sawdust in his pockets.
He also loved to carve wood.
He would etch leaves
or roses, or eagles
into a good piece of Walnut
or a slab of Maple.
He taught the grandchildren
to carve using
bars of soap and
chocolate chip cookies.
He had a creator’s hands.
He wanted each of
us to make our
own hands useful, so he
showed us how.
I remember sitting in church
as a tiny girl,
holding his hand
and pressing down again
and again on
the prominent veins
on the back of his hand,
stopping the flow of his blood
with my fingers.
On the day he died,
I recognized
his pronounced veins
in my own hands.
I was grateful to know some
of the DNA from his hands
lived on in mine.
Thanks, Dad
for the gift of your hands.
