Not long ago, I went searching for a keepsake I thought I had stored in the back of my closet. I searched and searched but never found whatever it was that sent me on my quest. Instead, I found more. As I rummaged through my possessions—some treasured, some not, I happened upon a collection of photographs of my father and suddenly remembered his hands.
I remember my father’s hands as plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long day’s work. Those hands shoveled, unclogged drains and toilets, repaired leaks, and installed pipes, toilets, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stable, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they "plumbed,’"rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, and seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones, learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions.
I remember my father’s hands as healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
