My Father's Hands
I’ve been trying to get my Praise and Worship power point slides up to speed with the ever growing number of songs that I have. That has in turn thrown me through my usual searches for photos and backgrounds. I searched “hands” and found some beautiful photos. Some young, some old, some scarred, some cleans, some dirty, holding hands, hands holding objects. Really, they are beautiful. I can’t say that I love my hands – I think they’re absolutely childish looking. Small with small rounded nails which are constantly being chewed on by myself.
These photos did make me think a lot about the hands in my life. I’ve got to say, my dad’s got the funniest looking hands. They look terribly stubby and his fingernails are wider than they are long. I am the unfortunate daughter whose hands and feet are the identical match to his.
Yet my dad’s hands are beautiful to me. They are curious hands where as a 3 year old when his father was killed and he was locked in my grandfather’s office left to play by himself while his mother took the opportunity to abandon him. He went through the whole office, getting to know his father’s study thoroughly.
They are brave hands. Hands that helped him run away from his grandmother at the age of 4 and scour the streets of Seoul looking for food to eat and shaking his finger at gangsters doing bad things.
They are strong hands that broke boards, doors, walls, noses and bones that got in the way of righteousness, law, and respect. My dad is a saint, yes, but was and is one helluva fighter.
They are determined hands. Hands that were clenched as he told the military that he would go to church on Wednesday nights because it was his right, even though he was beaten and given more work to do because of it. Hands that gripped the car steering wheel as he went on a stake-out at his mother’s home, using his CIA status, to see if he could face the woman who seemed to have forgotten about him so long ago. Hands as fists that walked away and decided that he would move to Canada to start his own family that he would never abandon.
They are creative and skilled hands. Hands that did mason work to lay down the foundations of the CN Tower and Toronto Eaton Centre. Hands that took up tailoring to make the best fitting suits, shirts, dresses and Salvation Army Uniforms of all time. Hands that could take apart a broken brass instrument and find a way to make it whole again.
They are hands of faith. Hands that are always held up to God in reverence, fear, and understanding. Hands that stand up for poor, marginalized, hurt and unwanted. Hands that serve and hands that pray with fervor.
They are loving hands. Hands that held me when I was first born and held me as I walked down the aisle. Hands that disciplined me with a sting. Hands that comforted me when life hit me with heavy blows. Hands that cooked breakfast and dinner to take to my mother in the hospital for the 3 years. Hands that carried her coffin to her resting place. Hands that brought up 3 children through the toughest years of their lives. Hands that crafted my wedding dress in 2 days. Hands that continue to work so that he can provide his family and church with more than they’ll ever need. Hands that I love to hold.
I love my fathers hands. With all the wear and tear, they hold more stories than I will ever know or be able to tell. I can only hope that his hands will tell my children of the wonderful things they have done. I would post one of the beautiful photos I found of hands today, but instead I will wait and add a picture of his. They are after all… legend.
These photos did make me think a lot about the hands in my life. I’ve got to say, my dad’s got the funniest looking hands. They look terribly stubby and his fingernails are wider than they are long. I am the unfortunate daughter whose hands and feet are the identical match to his.
Yet my dad’s hands are beautiful to me. They are curious hands where as a 3 year old when his father was killed and he was locked in my grandfather’s office left to play by himself while his mother took the opportunity to abandon him. He went through the whole office, getting to know his father’s study thoroughly.
They are brave hands. Hands that helped him run away from his grandmother at the age of 4 and scour the streets of Seoul looking for food to eat and shaking his finger at gangsters doing bad things.
They are strong hands that broke boards, doors, walls, noses and bones that got in the way of righteousness, law, and respect. My dad is a saint, yes, but was and is one helluva fighter.
They are determined hands. Hands that were clenched as he told the military that he would go to church on Wednesday nights because it was his right, even though he was beaten and given more work to do because of it. Hands that gripped the car steering wheel as he went on a stake-out at his mother’s home, using his CIA status, to see if he could face the woman who seemed to have forgotten about him so long ago. Hands as fists that walked away and decided that he would move to Canada to start his own family that he would never abandon.
They are creative and skilled hands. Hands that did mason work to lay down the foundations of the CN Tower and Toronto Eaton Centre. Hands that took up tailoring to make the best fitting suits, shirts, dresses and Salvation Army Uniforms of all time. Hands that could take apart a broken brass instrument and find a way to make it whole again.
They are hands of faith. Hands that are always held up to God in reverence, fear, and understanding. Hands that stand up for poor, marginalized, hurt and unwanted. Hands that serve and hands that pray with fervor.
They are loving hands. Hands that held me when I was first born and held me as I walked down the aisle. Hands that disciplined me with a sting. Hands that comforted me when life hit me with heavy blows. Hands that cooked breakfast and dinner to take to my mother in the hospital for the 3 years. Hands that carried her coffin to her resting place. Hands that brought up 3 children through the toughest years of their lives. Hands that crafted my wedding dress in 2 days. Hands that continue to work so that he can provide his family and church with more than they’ll ever need. Hands that I love to hold.
I love my fathers hands. With all the wear and tear, they hold more stories than I will ever know or be able to tell. I can only hope that his hands will tell my children of the wonderful things they have done. I would post one of the beautiful photos I found of hands today, but instead I will wait and add a picture of his. They are after all… legend.
Comments
we read it together, cried and I'll print it out for dad so he can put it up at his work.
love you
CL