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.