Two hands

Every time I open my hands and look at the grooves and line in my own hands, I see my father.  I have big hands: the hands of German English heritage. Just like my father’s hands, the digits are not well suited to playing the piano or sometimes even typing.  There are few images in my mind of my father which are stronger than the sight of his hands. My father’s hands were huge, but the most remarkable characteristic was the rough callousness of them.  My dad was a mechanic in the days before computers and smog control devices.  Being a mechanic meant you were tough, greasy, tolerant, and patient. 

Those great big hands that would reach out to me to come and give him a hug seemed so coarse.  Years of working with hot engines, sharp tools, and caustic chemicals made them that way.  I remember dad when mom was in the hospital for a three day visit and trying to fix the kids something to eat, reaching out for a hot black iron frying pan from the electric stove top.  He had picked it up to take it to the table and he had gone five steps before he realized it was burning hot.  His hands were so desensitized to heat it took that long to set off the warning bells in his head.  With one giant throw the pan and our dinner went into the sink splattering oil and our food all over the wall.

I guess the reason I remember my father’s hands so well is because as he suffered from the ravages of Alzheimer’s and the rest of his world shrank his hands were still the most remarkable thing to see. They bore the unmistakable signs of hard work.  Those thick, strong and rough hands had not shrunk with the rest of his body.  Those hands that had gripped steel, plunged thousands of times into gasoline and oil,  and pulled chains.  Those hands hung from his arms from still thick wrists that stretched any watch band he had ever known.  They were not the hands that should be idle in his last days.  They shook and were increasingly awkward when he tried to wipe the drool off his  own proud chin.

 TWO GREAT HANDS

 

My Father was a man with two great hands,

The skin was rough as it could be.
Work was his life with its pulls and commands,
But he always made time for me.

Sleep and rest were not part of his clock,

There was always someone else in need.
Never did he stop, even when he could drop,
For there were many mouths at home to feed.

His bones were often tired and painfully uncured,

His hands often bandaged and red.
But a promise was a promise, and his bond was his word,
And everyone believed what he said.

He was my dad, and constant each day.

It amazed me how he could be ever so strong,
In his life, in his convictions and in his way.
In my eyes he would never do wrong.

Consistent in actions and strong were his words,
All were made better for walking with this man.
My hands are not as rough, or nearly as tough,
But my inheritance was his gentleness of his hand.

My Dad was a man with two working hands,

Until his life did stop with a beat.
Oh how I miss him, his hands and loving gentle soul,
But these hands I have will ever remind and keep.

Dig another Well

I have never been one to point fingers.  I believe that the effort expended in the pursuit of whom or what was at fault is simply wasted energy. My belief comes from two other mantras which I have accepted; 1) control is a myth, and 2) we are responsible for our own decisions. But we seem to live in a culture that seems to be always looking for an excuse. Things happen to both good people and not so good people.  Good things happen and we want to take credit and when the opposite raises its ugly face we want to blame. Blame is easier than understanding the reasons for tragedy and hardship.

In the recent Supreme Court decision on marriage our first reaction is to blame someone.  It is all those liberal judges, or it is that small group of dissidents that prevailed against my own sense of right and wrong. We end up singing the “woe is me” song or chant “our country is going to hell in a hand basket.”

We want to blame someone for our own personal lack of control of those black robed judges in Washington.  Our lack of control wants us to blame. Our frustration which comes from the lack of control is vented outward.

Yes there is a moral crisis in our country and in our world.  And the most followed religion in this world is seemingly unable to slow it down.  The counter-forces against the Church seem to be winning.  The cannon fire of the opposition seems to be better aimed and more powerful.  We are exasperated at our own personal and corporate control of the terrible slide downward.

Country singer Paul Overstreet wrote a song about a story in Genesis 26, which contains an important lesson for us. In this song Isaac is renamed Ike. Listen to the lyrics:

Ike had a blessing from the Lord up above,
Gave him a beautiful woman to love,
A place to live, some land to farm,
Two good legs and two good arms.

The Devil came sneaking around one night,
Decided he would do a little evil to Ike.
Figured he hit ole Ike where it hurts so he
Filled up all Ike’s wells with dirt

Ike went out to get his morning drink,
Got a dip full of dirt and his heart did sink
He knew it was the Devil so he said with a grin
God blessed me once, he can do it again

So when the rains don’t fall, and the crops all fail,
And the cow ain’t putting any milk in the pail,
Don’t sit around waiting for a check in the mail,
Just pick up your shovel and dig another well,
Pick up your shovel and dig another well.

Adversity is part of life.  For the Christian it just means we should realize God’s blessed and loved people will undergo uncontrollable problems. We can’t control the adversity. And it is not about fault.  It is how we react to adversity that counts. Life can be unfair.  People and circumstances can hurt you and steal from you, people can make decisions that you don’t agree with, the music may not be to your liking, but how we react is more important than all these things.  It is a personal decision to pick up your shovel and dig another well; because God blessed me once, he can do it again.

It is more than just smiling and setting your jaw to keep on keeping on.  There is an expectation, a faith  that God will be vindicated. In the end there is hope.  Because God is still in the blessing business.