More Hands - This Time, Joe's Writing

Joe wrote this for me for Father's Day last June.  I wept.

Dear Dad,                                                                                                                Father’s Day 2011

My hands looked like yours tonight.  The way I remember them when I was a kid, and thought your beard was “fierce”.

Palms crafted in confidence, holding the very secret of safety.

Willingness to discipline, and gentleness to cradle a baby boy, and tell him he is loved.

Across the back stretched cracked leather road maps, revealing the hero they belonged to:

Veins for strength.

Abrasions for work.

Scars for character.

They were thunderous claps, and a calming blanket.

A cup of coffee or three, and then one for your bride.

They were chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday morning, and playing catch ‘til it was just a little too dark for you out there.

They were shoelaces as tight as you could tie them…

And pound it, park it, bump it, high five, up high, down low, too slow.

They were Peace, Love, and Hang Loose.

But most of all, they were pointing…

Pointing to what I couldn’t see, until I saw, Another set of Hands:

The model of your sketch.

Palms that crafted confidence, holding the very universe together.

Willingness to take nails, and gentleness to cradle a young man and tell him he is loved.

Across the back stretch the expanse of heaven, revealing the hero they belong to:

Oceans for Strength.

Mountains for Work.

And two railroad spike-sized scars to make known the unmatchable character of Christ.

They are thunderclaps and calming seas.

Raised a cup to His own lips to spare His bride.

They are the reason for Sunday morning, in whose presence it is never just a little too dark.

They were shoelaces a righteous man was not worthy to untie.

They were pounded, crushed, bruised, nailed up high, brought low, to show: He is The Way, The Truth, The Life.

And He is holding: Holding out redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

So Dad, thank you for pointing me to my Father.

And when I cradle a baby boy who thinks I’m fierce, I’ll sketch him his Father as well.

~jm