His Hands

I held his hands a lot.

His hands were rough and calloused. He worked so hard and his hands truly showed how much he loved his work. They were strong. They were scarred. He had little bits of paint in the creases of his nails.

These were the same hands that held me as a baby. That taught me how to play ball. That held me when I was sick. That held my babies.

It was my turn to hold his hand. How I wished he could squeeze my hand. I held his hands hoping and praying he could feel me there and somehow feel how much I loved him. I moved his fingers around. Wiggled his wrist up and down. Rolled up wash cloths to put in his hands when I or mom was not around to hold them.

The nurses rubbed his hands down with lotion twice a day. Mom clipped his nails. The paint chips disappeared. The callouses disappeared. His hands started to take on the look of a man who never knew what manual labor was. They were smooth, the nails were shiny with neat edges. His strong hands had lost their strength.

Now he is in God's hands.

Words cannot express how much I miss him and how much he meant to me.