Dad’s hands were some of the most worn I have ever seen. He never used them to play an instrument, and he never used them to braid his daughters’ hair (though how he tried). With his hands he never gave any great speeches or ran them through riches, but dad’s hands were far more precious than silver and gold. Dad’s hands had fixed cars, forged metal and molded gold. His hands painted picture, calmed children and welcomed lost ones home. He saved lives, helped other and held lives as they passed to our father’s home.
With his hands dad taught, and wrote ancient texts. He took stone and clay and molded theminto works that’s rival no man can claim. His hands helped to heal the sick and assisted injured animals grow strong. He healed wounds of flesh and soul, and when times called for it he would let you know you had done wrong.
My dad’s hands were never beautiful to look at. The nails were always full of dirt and grease. He had calluses so hard sometime he could hardly move them. They were worn and torn from years of hard work, but no other hands were ever so gentle. Each year he would plant a garden and watch it grow. Each year he would fix and patch up what needed mending. They were quick to help or wipe away tears. They were quick to embrace a loved one to let them know he cared. With his hands he helped raise his children, show love, and ease fears.
Dad’s hands may not have been beautiful to sight but they were precious in so many other ways. You hear poems about a father’s hands, their strength, tenderness and love, but nothing can replace their loss when a father is gone.