Thursday, April 22, 2010
I love hands. Hands are always the first thing I notice about people.
I remember my grandfather's hands. They were always tanned from working outside and usually had a cut or two on them. He had long, thin fingers that could do any job. My grandfather was a very hard worker who used his hands to help many people - mostly people who just needed a hand up. And they always had time to hug a grandchild.
My Dad's hands are thick with stubby fingers. They have worked on farms for many years. Even his "regular" jobs involved farmers. He spent 8 years in Brazil teaching them to grow burley tobacco. When he got back to Kentucky he sold insurance mostly to farmers and he worked our farm between sales. I remember Daddy's trembling hands when my grandfather died. I remember Daddy's trembling hands holding my daughter for the first time.
My husband's hands are slim and strong with more than one callus. They've been mashed, cut, and bruised over the years, but they were always ready to reach out to his children. They're very soft as they hold his grandchildren and always ready to pick a flower or build a playhouse.
A friend of mine lost her father this week. It was a sudden and tragic accident that makes the loss that much quicker and painful. There was no time for good-bye. Right now there is hurt and loss, but there is still the memory how much love was in daddy's hands.