Recently I read an article about the frail hands of a man and the lifetime stories they could tell. As I read that beautiful story I thought that I, too, could write about my dad’s hands and the numerous stories that his hands represented in the 90 years that he lived.

This photo was taken during one of my frequent visits to see dad when he lived in a memory care facility. As dad lost his ability to express himself verbally he relied on ‘touch’ and ‘use of his eyes’ to communicate his thoughts.  I’d like to tell you about my dad’s ‘hands’.

Dad was the middle child of 11. He was born and raised on a farm in northern Michigan during the Great Depression. Daily food came from the hard work of his parents and God’s provision. There wasn’t extra money for the things all kids want such as toys, games, and candy. Dad told us that “if we wanted a sled or wagon we made one out of scraps laying on a pile next to the barn”. Winters in northern Michigan provided ample opportunities for skiing and sledding, all activities he and his brothers enjoyed with their handcrafted creations. Later in life, dad’s ability to take pieces of wood and create something beautiful and useful would become more than a ‘need’ but rather a source of practical provision and generosity.

Upon returning to Saginaw following his service in the Korean Conflict, dad and mom purchased a lot in Zauel Subdivision and began the building of 2004 Arthur, our family home. The year was 1954 when the ranch style home with a one car attached garage and breezeway began his biggest do-it-yourself project. With the exception of the basement, plumbing, and electrical all other work was performed with his own hands. My brother Dave, who was about 8 at the time, helped lay the hardwood in the living room. I was content to sit on the stack of wood and watch until one afternoon I stood up, took my first steps, made the circle of rooms and kept on going.

Those were good years, the 50’s and 60’s. Mom was content in her home cooking wonderful meals, keeping house, and helping with school projects. Dad worked for the City of Saginaw and supplemented their income by building furniture for people and on occasion took on remodeling projects doing kitchens primarily.  In my 8th grade of education he tackled the job of remodeling mom’s kitchen, making it larger and up-to-date for the times.  In my high school years they purchased land on AuSable Lake and he built their cottage using repurposed materials. I have to wonder if doing so made him recall the scrap pile by the barn. 

Even though dad was very comfortable and adept using his power tools, his hands had many other purposes such as giving me my one and only spanking at age 3, playing catch in the front yard with my brothers, playing horseshoes with his brothers at grandma’s house, putting puzzles together as a family, making bread with mom, holding the bike seat so I could learn to ride a two-wheeler, serving communion at church…..the list is long and full of meaningful memories.

If you visit our home it is with pleasure that I can introduce you to each piece of furniture we own, handsomely built with precision and love by dad.  You will marvel at the curio cabinet which was our wedding gift and the dining room table which is a copycat version of one I saw in a catalogue. There’s even a small wooden cross that he mass produced for Easter years ago.

Perhaps the most treasured position dad’s hands took was the year mom died. In the early hours of the morning, when imminent death as calling, dad scooped mom up with his hands and arms and prayed a prayer of recommitment back to  the Lord. Her weakened body  which had been fashioned by a Heavenly Father and cared for  54 years by  work of dad’s hands was coming to a close.

In  September 2008 we moved dad to his last residence. That was a hard move for him  emotionally speaking. He  knew he was facing difficult times ahead.  After putting his things in order in his new room, he painstakingly gathered me and my niece to kneel and pray a prayer of thanksgiving for family and being cared for, his hands  folded in humility before God. This was to become a final act of worship that held deep significance for him  and a treasured gift for me.

Yes, dad’s hands spanned a lifetime of 90 years, of which I was able to be part of for almost 60 years. I love thinking of little boys and scrap piles, mountains of sawdust in the garage and basement, applauding  my high school  choral concerts, and playing with his grandchildren. I love telling and sharing his life with my family and friends.  I love that my dad’s hands reflected the goodness and love of my Heavenly  Father..  And, maybe just maybe dad doesn’t have to use a scrap pile anymore to build his newest project, but is enjoying using the richest of woods and shiniest of nails that his Father has laying near a beautiful red barn, just for him. 

While this photo is from a site unknown to me, incredibly its sheer beauty transports me to a tranquil place in my mind where I can escape for just a little while, allowing me to lay aside the demands of my day and the concerns of my life. I don’t know why it is exactly that I have come to love winter and a fresh blanket of snow. Perhaps it may be because of the many childhood memories that I have from winters past. Or, in a  spiritual sense fresh, clean snow paints a picture of cleansing and redemption for all that is soiled and impure. Depending on my needs, seeing snow and watching the magic of the transformation it brings to my surroundings is a feeling hard for me to describe.

I have to admit it’s always disheartening for me to be privy to conversations whereby one or several are spewing negative feelings regarding snow. I want to shout “NO!”–not me!! I LOVE snow. It’s clean, it’s white, it’s pure, it’s a free gift from God to play in and create snowmen, forts, and snowballs….all which create memories, especially for a little, wide eyed girl in the 60’s growing up in a neighborhood with about 30 kids in variety of ages who came together one beautiful cold winter afternoon for the Zauel Street Snowball Fight of snowball fights. A fresh, perfect snow for making snowballs  had taken place overnight. Teams were formed and plans with an appointed time of ambush had been set. Under proper supervision of each team captain, busy mittened hands built a snow wall in the front yards of the two opposing teams. These walls would be our protection against the onslaught of the flying frozen ammunition that was to come. Once we were satisfied with the height of our respective walls, we began the arduous, cold task of making snowballs. I don’t remember how many we made, but time was of the essence as we anticipated the countdown to the first launch. Each team worked in unity and harmony with one goal in mind–be ready and be on the winning team….and hope that at the appointed hour no cars would need to be using Zauel Street. (This really wasn’t an issue since our neighborhood was in the southwest corner of the city, much off the beaten path)

It’s been over 50 years and a lot of snowballs for me to remember if I was on the wining team. What I do remember is ‘someone’ announcing to halt making snowballs and ready for the big fight. In what seemed like a flurry of hands and arms, heads ducking to avoid a direct hit, and bobbing up and down behind our snow walls, in a matter of minutes the fight ended. Amid the sheer cold and exhaustion I remember screams of delight as a carefully aimed snowball found a target or the expressions of anguish being the recipient of a well thrown frozen ball accompanied by the realization that all supplies had been used. In what took hours to prepare, minutes werre able to consume, yet create and record a memory into the mind of this little girl. Those of us living and participating in the Zauel Street Snowball fight laughed for days, and whoever had bragging rights enjoyed weeks of feeling like champions.

That snowball fight is but one favorite memory. I was fortunate to live two blocks away from a city park that made two skating rinks every winter. Afternoons and weekends were spent on our ice skates. I was 11 years old when I got my first pair of skates. They were a gift from my older brother Mark. When he became old enough to drive, we often made the  short trip to Hoyt Park to skate. This was a much larger city park that was flooded with millions of gallons of water to form skating rinks. Mark occupied his skating with a pickup game of hockey while I practiced my fancy footwork nearby.

I  have many other good memories that have snow in the backdrop. There’s my brother’s  January 1967 wedding that was postponed for 24 hours……getting over 12 inches of snow one April workday, only to have the sun clear all the roads before 5 pm…….remembering dad letting us build an igloo outside the back door one year…….or the times dad took us to the Water Works to sled on those hills….even skiing  in our own neighborhood…..watching the ice thaw on the Saginaw River complete with crashing sounds under the power of Nature ushering in Spring.

No, I admit to becoming a bit disgruntled when folks complain about snow. It’s from winters past and future that I know many more happy memories are coming my way.  There are mugs of tea or hot chocolate to be enjoyed,  warm sweaters and slippers to keep me warm, and who knows…….maybe I  can  join a good snowball fight again to test my age old skills of dodging, bobbing, and taking careful  aim at a worthy opponent.