Daddy

My mind does not want to let me write what my daddy MEANT to me. I want to write what my daddy MEANS to me. No past tense I want present tense.
Yet, I trust in God’s timing and I know He is bigger than the pain.
I loved daddy’s hands. They were strong hands with discernible calluses and lines that marked years of vital work, active hobbies, vigorous recreation and adventure.

Daddy’s hands were also gentle. He used them to wipe away my tears, and to draw me into a warm hug; those strong solid hands also affected the three men in my life.

His handshake was strong when he grasped my soon to be husband’s hand. The grasp said, “ welcome to the family” while also saying “don’t you ever hurt my daughter”.

Those compassionate hands cradled each of my infant sons. Those hands gently wrestled with the boys, baited their fishing poles and were steady and firm while teaching them the art of handling guns and hitting their target.

Last week it was my turn to have a firm grip on daddy’s hand while we walked into the doctor’s office.

Last week it was my turn to have gentle hands as I soothed his fevered brow.

Sunday it was my turn to gently hold those awesome calloused hands one last time.
With tears streaming down my face I told him that all would be okay.

For once - while in his presence I had to wipe away my own tears for my daddy’s strong hands now lay still.

Dad – May my hands be like yours. I love you