Daddy's hands

We had just left the cancer center, where Dad had once again received nothing but bad news. He was weak—so weak that he had to be held up as he walked with his cane. We stopped at Hardee's for breakfast, and I sat across from him at our table, waiting for Mom to return with our food. I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid that if I even tried, I would break down in tears.

I looked at the man who had raised me, the man who had shaped me into who I am today. He had always been the strongest person in my life.

As we sat there in silence, staring off into space, Dad suddenly spoke. “Look at that—how smooth your hands are compared to mine.” I looked down at his hands, just inches from mine. They were worn and spotted, trembling even as they rested on the table. “My hands used to look like yours,” he said. “But look at them now.”

My heart broke for him. He knew his time here was short. He still had dreams, desires—things he wanted to do. But now, it was too late. In that moment, I realized just how much my daddy’s hands had meant to me.

I stared at them, remembering all the ways they had been a part of my life. Those hands had once held me on his lap as I clutched my toy gun, watching Gunsmoke together. They had steadied me as I learned to ride my bicycle. I had watched them strum his guitar as he played the blues, country, and gospel music. Those hands were the ones I had feared when they pulled the belt from his waist after I had done wrong. And those were the same hands that shook mine when I was called to preach, as he told me how proud he was.

In Dad’s final hours, as he lay in the hospital bed we had set up in his room, Mom and I sat with him. He hated that bed—we had to pull the rails up to keep him from falling, and he despised feeling helpless. As he struggled for breath, I held one of his hands, and Mom held the other. There was nothing we could do but pray. I don’t even know if he knew we were there by then.

I sure wish I could hold my daddy’s hands again.