Daddy's Hands

In 2006, we made our annual trip to Burt's Pumpkin Farm. A picture was taken of our family by the father of a my friend Jen. They gave us an edited copy, and it hangs in our mudroom by the backdoor. I love looking at it. Shortly after Brock died, I noticed for the first time that Drew and Brock were holding hands.


I got in my mind that I wanted to blow up just that part of the picture for Drew for Father's Day. After several attempts of my own Photoshop tactics, I headed to Wolf Camera for some help. I had the nicest guy, Jason, that helped me. The resolution on the picture was low because it had already been Photoshop'd to remove a lady in the background. Trying to blow up such a small area kept coming out 'not so good'. Jason continued to help me for three days. When I picked the picture up on Saturday, I took a quick look and dashed to buy a frame. As I slipped the photo in the frame at home and propped it in a chair to look at it, I started to sob. The thought that Drew was holding the hand of a child that we can no longer hold was too much. We live with that reality every day but sometimes it comes and slaps me in the face. In that moment, I can't think of the hope of Heaven or even how thankful I am to have had even one day to hold that precious hand...all I can feel is the ache in my empty hands and arms.

I called the boys in to look at the picture. I asked them if they knew what it was. They all immediately answered, "Daddy's hands holding Brockie's." I asked them to go write Daddy a Father's Day card and use the theme of 'Daddy's Hands.' I asked them to think of things they like to do with Daddy and his hands. (After a brief time of trying to convince me they would do it on Sunday morning), they went off and wrote their cards for Drew.

My card included things like carrying all the boys from a young age. They were all big babies and so, after a few months, they got so heavy that when it was the two of us, Drew was usually carrying the little one. Etched in my mind is the silhouette of Drew carrying Brock in his arms to and from church. With his hands he taught them to throw a ball, swing a bat, whittle a stick, build a car(boxcar), ride a bike, mow the lawn. His hands have brushed their teeth and pulled their teeth. His hands have picked them up when they were too tired to walk. Hands that have embraced them when they were hurt. His hands have protected them from harm and provided for their needs. His hands have held the pages of a thousand books for exciting bedtime stories. His hands have brushed back their hair so he could kiss their forehead. Most of all his hands have loved them and pointed them to the One who loves them more than he does. I love the man that these hands belong to.
With permission, I am including part of what our Mason, age 11, wrote. He wrote a note and then wrote a poem. Here is the poem:

My Daddy's Hands

At the age of zero,
soft and loving when I was just born.

At the age of 2 holding my hands up and
teaching me how to walk.

At the age of 5,
showing me how to throw a baseball.

At the age of 7,
holding my hands as we walk through a
Georgia Football game so I don't get lost.

At the age of 9,
showing me how to do math problems.

At the age of 11,
clapping whenever I make a good play or score in baseball.

In Heaven,
wrapping your hands around Me, Mom, Asa, Barrett, new baby, and Brockie.
Then we will be one big family with a Daddy with big loving hands.

Indeed when we get to Heaven we will all be together and we will also get to see the hands of our Heavenly Father. The one who put the stars in place, painted the sky beautiful shades of pink and blue at sunset and gives the flowers their magnificent beauty. The hands that grew from a little baby to a young boy working with wood like his father. The hands that healed the sick, the blind and the lame. The hands that multiplied the fish and the bread to feed everyone. The hands that were pierced with stakes as they stretched out on a cross because he was thinking of me...and you. The hands that welcomed my Brockie into Heaven. The hands that hold him now until I can again. The hands that held me after Brock died when I could not stand on my own. The hands that reached in and soothed my breaking heart. The hands that provided for our every need when we could not think for ourselves. The hands that took me by my right hand and guided me ever so gently through this dark valley. The hands that preserved my life. The hands that lately have been knitting a new life in my womb....Oh, how I love the nail scarred hands of my Savior!