she asked His help: Daddy's Hands

Many a father's day has come and gone without even a card from me to him, a simple phone call at most. He isn't the type to like fanfare, to be made much of, and truth be told he can't stand his picture being taken. We have many with his face hidden behind his ever-present coffee mug.

They say you are what you eat. In my father's case, he is what he drinks. Strong, steady, full of depth, like the black coffee that fills his cup always half full not empty. And while at first glance he may come across a little stiff like black coffee, those of us that know and love him, know that what's inside is laced with a smidgen of raw honey. Soft, yielding, smoothing the potential bitter edge.

There are many things I love about my dad but one of my very favorite things are his leathered hands that evidence 70 years of hard work. I read these words the other day

Do men speak better with their hands, muscles expressing the heart better than tongue?

And I knew the words were written to describe my own dad. Decade after decade after decade of waking before the sun and working the ground, the cattle, the horses, even a desk, refereeing the games, chauffeuring children and horses, and always working. Often growing up I wondered if he ever would or even could stop working. Now I know the answer is no. Those hands don't stop working.

Ann penned so perfectly

I want to grab your dirt-crusted hands. I know what you are made of. I know how you’ve never, ever, stopped planting. Do I know what you have tried to say with all these years?

Us saying all the work was about getting and you trying to say all the work was about giving. Us saying that you succeeded well, and you trying to say you served well...

I watch your hands, Dad — try to read between the lines.

Read the love between everything, the way all the wrinkles unfold the quiet gestures of your soul …

As I get older I begin to not just read the lines, the wrinkles, the scars but comprehend the heart that keeps his hands from idleness. I comprehend the way his wrinkles unfold the quiet gestures of his soul.

I read a love story in those hands.

The lyrics to Holly Dunn's Daddy's Hands remind me of my childhood and my daddy:

I remember Daddy´s hands, folded silently in prayer.
And reaching out to hold me, when I had a nightmare.
You could read quite a story, in the callouses and lines.
Years of work and worry had left their mark behind.
I remember Daddy´s hands, how they held my Mama tight,
And patted my back, for something done right.
There are things that I´ve forgotten, that I loved about the man,
But I´ll always remember the love in Daddy´s hands.

Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin´.
Daddy´s hands, were hard as steel when I´d done wrong.
Daddy´s hands, weren´t always gentle
But I´ve come to understand.
There was always love in Daddy´s hands.

I remember Daddy´s hands, working 'til they bled.
Sacrificed unselfishly, just to keep us all fed.
If I could do things over, I´d live my life again.
And never take for granted the love in Daddy´s hands.