Father's Day Special

A Father's Hands

Her  Dad, some ninety plus years now, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. She sat down beside him. He didn't acknowledge her presence and the longer He sat she wondered if he was okay.

Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, she asked him if he was okay. He raised his head and looked at her and smiled.
Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking, he said in a clear strong voice. I didn't mean to disturb you, Dad, but you were just sitting there staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were alright.""Have you ever looked at your hands?" he asked. "I mean really looked at your hands?

 She slowly opened her hands and stared down at them. She turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as she tried to figure out the point he was making. Dad smiled and related this story: "Stop and think for a moment about the hands I have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all his life to reach out and grab and embrace life."


"They braced and caught your fall when as a toddler you crashed upon the floor. They put food in your mouth and clothes on your back. As a child your mother taught you to fold them in prayer. They tied your shoes and pulled on your boots. They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life. They wiped my tears when my son went off to war."

"They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold you as a newborn daughter. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that you were married and loved ,someone special."

"They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, washed and cleansed the rest of my body."

They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else on me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life."



"But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when He leads me home. And with this hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ." ----

After that day, she never looked at her hands the same again.
But she remembers God reached out and took her Dad's hands and led her home. When her hands are hurt of sore or when she stroke the face of her children and husband ,she thinks of Dad. She knows she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God