I had a strange thought awhile back. I don’t remember what my dad’s hands looked like. I am not sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe it is because I spend so much time looking at mine. They are pretty much in front of me all day long and I wonder if mine look like his. I wonder if we use them the same way in conversation. I wonder if we had the same mannerisms and gestures. It is hard to believe it has been almost 10 years since he died.<\/p>\n
I think about his hands because they are so important to who you are. They are how he earned his living. They are how he carried us and comforted us. They are a big part of how he communicated with us. I think back now to all those times he made me hold his hand in public even as a young teenager. I don’t know if it was to help keep him steady (editor’s note: my dad was handicapped) or some other reason. I know he once told me he he was proud to hold my hand and that in other countries the customs were quite different about holding hands. Dad never traveled to other countries so I don’t know if he just made that part up to hold on as long as he could. Maybe now I know why.<\/p>\n
I think maybe deep down Dad always knew alot more about what was happening to him then he let on. He and mom sheltered us kids as long as possible. How I long to just hold his hand now. The similarities between his passing and Noah’s passing are interesting. Both going home “before their time”, of course the next logical question is when is the right time? Both having severe brain problems, both dying of respiratory failure. Both with the middle name Allen. I look back now and wonder what was God preparing me for? And just like Mom and Dad sheltered me what has my heavenly Father sheltered me from?<\/p>\n
I think of Abraham’s hands wrapped around the knife, white knuckled with sweat dripping off his brow. Isaac, not laughing, bound montionless waiting to see what’s going to happen. But the angel of the Lord cried out Abraham! I can’t imagine how quickly Abraham’s hands worked to undo the bindings on Isaac. (I also wonder as Isaac grew older if he remembers the incident, what a story for family reunions.) But why did he save Abraham’s son and not mine? Did I not show enough faith? Were my hands not raised to heaven? <\/p>\n
But alas I realize that my faith is not that of Abraham’s. I doubt I would have been able to place Noah on the altar. I wouldn’t have been able to unsheath the knife. I wouldn’t have been able to willingly sacrifice my son and how I yearn to have him here. Maybe God did it for me and it reminds me of the sacrifice of his Son. How his hands were pierced. The hands with the power to heal, the power to cast out, the hands with the power to calm the waves. How his hands have lifted me up! I am thankful that the master carpenter was a able to build the bridge between me and God. Now I just have walk across it each day and take hold of his hand. – Ethan<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I had a strange thought awhile back. I don’t remember what my dad’s hands looked like. I am not sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe it is because I spend so much time looking at mine. They are … Continue reading