The Hands


The Hands

It is the hands. Though no body is a single piece or part. It is your hands that I always recall. A sanctuary of  tender love. Those hands. Though there were always the blues that cast a loving glance, wet often with tears. Slight movement of the heart, a word or song could cause your vision to fog and blur, misty eyed you’d cry joy more than not. Tender is your heart.

And it is your legs that trudge and travel, work and seem to never stop, doing good and doing more. Hoping planes and pacing sidewalks, roaming door to door. Knocking for a cause and giving out of love. The legs which have climbed mountains. And boarded trains.  There is a whole spinning orb that you have seen. You left a part of yourself in Haiti once or twice or more. Long and lean your legs determined to tell of Christ have crossed and crisscrossed, this Earth, in love. On the backs of elephants you have served, always filled with a holy love.

And your laugh. It comes on loud and deep and your bright smile, it flashes wide and long. The one you thought you’d take to Washington to change the world or at least some things. But you were stopped. And that was good. There were lives to touch much closer to home. When life was heavy you gave your laugh. Infused with childlike playfulness. And that saved the day more than once. It needing saving and you could turn the tide. You could turn sorrow to joy. And you did turn sadness into happiness. More than once. More than twice.

Red and beating fast, keeping you always moving, loving life and loving Christ and loving others is your heart. It is large and looming over those who count on you, to build them up, to give them hope. To help, in love. It has the capacity for love, not often seen. Out of love, you live a life of giving back. The heart of man, the heart of you is beautiful when it is loving well.

But it is your hands Daddy. The way they are always warm. Your fingers long, your grasp on mine, firm and strong. The ones that never seem to give out or  up. They grasp and hold in love, a child a woman and her children too. The way you squeeze and make me feel secure and loved. Though you have all that makes a godly man, I will never forget your two big hands. I remember, as a child. I remember your love shown through the endless generosity that flows. From your hands.

It is your hands that grab my heart and hold it still. This day in June I know you would hold mine,  walk me up or down the mountain. If I were there within your reach. You would hug me, hold me, tickle me and squeeze me. Still and always, I will be your child.

And in the years that remain, I know my eyes will see, a life continuing to be built on living well, in love.

So spilling on the page and through the screen are my three hand squeezes, you know what they mean.

Happy Father’s Day. I love you.

And  now you know how much I love your hands.


Dedicated to my Daddy on Father’s Day, June 16, 2013.

(photo credit: Tumblr ( Michael Angelo’s — David)