Hands

I was in the middle of communicating back and forth with my boss today.  She sent out a reminder to the faculty about the up-coming "Take Your Child to Work" day.  I shot back an off the cuff comment about how it's funny that day happens on a school day and not on one of the 100 plus days off from school.  She wrote back, telling me about why the day was picked and how it had been switched to a day after the yearly testing, I felt she had taken my reply too seriously.  So to that end I wrote back to her, thanking her for the extra info and pointing out that I was just pointing out a "funny."  My boss is so great, and patient with me.  She wrote back again, and as I was responding to her, I realized that I was writing about my dad, and that reminded me of how much I miss him.

My dad was in the mechanical service and food service industries for most of my life.  

When ever I had a day off I was up at 0-dark-30 and out the door with him, 

his helper for the day, loading trucks, moving crates in a warehouse, 

climbing through dirty crawlspaces and dirtier attics…  From the time I was 

8 till I left for college, If I was not working at my own job or at school, I was

 working with dad.  The last thing I would have ever wanted as a kid was another day off.

  I was too worn out from my last "day off" with dad.  It was on those 

days off, that I learned the most important thing about him; my dad worked hard. 

To this day I remember his hands.  As I picture them I am reminded of how hard my dad worked.

I had to stop and catch my emotions up for a minute.  I lost my dad a little over 2 years ago, I did not grieve for my loss, for I knew he was a believer, but i am not sure that I ever took the time to really think about how much I missed him (and would miss him as time goes on).  I wrote about my father once.  I told about the things he taught me, that I knew because of him.  I knew he loved my mother.  Every day he greeted her with a hug and a kiss and a loving word.  He made sure to tell me as a young man that nothing on this earth was as important to him as his wife, and I knew it to be true.  He taught me that a man was supposed to have 2 qualities: constancy and honor.  He taught me these traits daily in what he said and did, and in how these things agreed in how he lived.  He also taught me a man had to be strong and how he must sacrifice for his family.  

But I understand now that he taught me one lesson without ever saying a word.  He taught me this lesson through his hands.  My dad was a big man, 6'2", over 200 pounds.  He had arms that were long and strong... but his hands... I remember when dad was laid out in his casket, the first thing I saw were his hands.  I turned to my sister and said, "They got his hands right."  She agreed.  They looked hard, toughened by work, calloused and wrinkled by years of labor: my dad's hands.  His hands were huge, probably a good 50 percent bigger than mine.  My hands would disappear inside his when 

he sat with me and held mine as we talked (I needed a lot of counseling as a kid).  When he showed me how to work with the tools of his trades those hands were skillful, moving with gracefulness and purpose.  When he tossed me in the air each night as I ran to greet him I was sure his strong hands would catch me.  I can't remember a single time in my life that my dad's hands were anything but gentle toward those he loved.  Yes, I was spanked at times, but never out of anger.  Those huge, hard, calloused, mighty hands were always used for my good, no matter what.  

Most of this doesn't make much sense, but that's okay, because I'm writing to myself today.  What will my hands be remembered as by my children?