Daddy's hands

Stained glass @ Casa online.

When I was a little girl some of the things I remember most about Sunday mornings in church were: the rich colors of the stained glass groovy (or so I thought) windows, drawing pictures all over every centimeter of the visitor cards with the tiny pencils that were in the pew, and sitting next to my Dad and holding his hand.

I remember looking forward to prayer, because it was when I usually grabbed my Dad's hand tight. It was a moment I felt safe, loved and understood. Dad's hands were work weary. He was a police officer and also moonlighted as a home contractor. Sometimes his hands would have wood stain on them, they were rough and often he would have some cuts here and there from working with wood or a purple thumbnail from missing a nail and hitting it with a hammer. Somehow, I was never put off by the life wear that was so visible in his hands. I can still picture Dad in his three piece gray or brown suit looking so put together, but his hands were always in work clothes.

His hands were rarely resting. He would build, rake, snow blow, work in his wood shop in the basement, split wood, write reports, and record each day in his diary. Holding his hand was a way for me to feel connected to him and all the grown-up work and adventure he got to take part in. It felt to me, like stepping into his shoes for a moment.

Yesterday, I was surprised to get a call from my Dad. He was on a business call near where I live so we made plans to have coffee or dinner together with my Mom, my daughter, her friend and my son. We sat down at the dinner table at Applebee's and chatted about lots of different things. It had been a several months since we had seen each other and had almost all my family and them in one place, so there was a great deal to catch up on. Work, school, the kids activities, an so on. What we talked about mostly was a blur, but it was a happy blur as I cherish the times we see each other face to face.

As our food came to the table, Dad asked if he could say the blessing and he reached out to take my hand across the table. Now that his work is not so physical, his hands are no longer rough like they used to be when I was I child. I laid my hand in his and he spoke words of thankfulness, blessing and I focused on being in that moment. I became aware of him carefully holding my hand, gently squeezing my fingers and seeming to not want to let go. I looked at him at the end of the short prayer that seemed to me to going in slow motion, and he smiled. It was the same smile he's give me when I was a small child sitting next to him in on the padded pew. I smiled back and he squeezed my hand once more before letting go.

There has been a long stretch of time for me since I was reminded or willing to accept that I'm loved, cherished and maybe even more understood by my Dad, than I thought. Even if we don't always agree on things, that moment with my Dad yesterday reminded me of where we started and where I'd like to stay in our relationship. One simple gesture of hand holding, makes me crave more moments like this, to make more memories to embrace, and be reminded of my own desire to reach out and find my Daddy's hand already waiting to hold mine.


Photo from Child's Photography

Reach out, don't let fear or loss keep you from holding hands. Sometimes the simplest action has the greatest healing impact.