It Would Be His 96th Birthday: An Essay

Me with my dad and little sister

Although I no longer remember the actual moment when we posed in this photo, the picture is a forever memory, my having first spotted it as a little girl in Mom's photo album, and now taking up residence in mine. It remains one of my favourite pictures of my dad. So young and handsome. I love that he had such a happy smile in that moment posing with his girls. This is probably the age I would have been when I played with my invisible playmate, Barry (you can visit my previous post to learn more HERE).

The following essay was written about a year after my dad passed away in the early 2000s. It became part of the healing path as I waded through the grief and sense of deep loss I felt at the time. It was such a comforting piece to write. It helped me to put things in perspective, I think. This September he would be celebrating his 96th birthday. His brother, my uncle, just celebrated his 100th and we were so happy to think of Uncle's long life. We think wistfully what if Dad could have had that same length of life. . . . however, such is life, we don't choose when we arrive on this planet and we don't choose, not usually, when we leave it. Especially if we believe God holds our lives, times, and seasons in his loving hands.

Hope you enjoy... 

❦

Beautiful Hands

"A father doesn’t tell you that he

loves you. He shows you."

Attributed to DEMITRI THE STONEHEART

WHEN WE WANT to convey our affection and esteem to someone, gifts, flowers, and Hallmark™ cards have become accepted (even expected) tokens of our love. Like many, I avail myself of these most agreeable traditions, and I admit my eyes light up with pleasure at the sight of a parcel, florist bundle, or card addressed to me. Now, I am the daughter of a man who did not express his love in these traditional ways. My dad was quiet and reserved, and for reasons only he knew, he kept his emotions and counsel close to himself all his life. It was not easy for him to initiate a hug or say words of love or commendation, even when he was proud of us. And he usually wasn’t one who stood by the card counter to pick out the special occasion greetings for the people he cared about.

Still, growing up I never doubted that Dad loved me. Maybe as a child, I just assumed my parents would love me. I took it for granted. And there wasn't anything to disprove that belief in my experiences growing up in our family. All my material needs and many of my wants were provided for in ample measure, and when I think about it in retrospect, his hands (in tandem with his heart) articulated a love that no store-bought gift or card could have done more eloquently than the countless acts of service and lovingly hand-made offerings he presented to me and my family over his lifetime.

Dad's hands were strong and brawny. With freckles on them. Sometimes dirty with good old farm dirt or machinery grease if he was fixing the tractor or combine. They were the hands of a farmer, a builder, a gardener. They were always industrious and resourceful and never harsh, although he could give a sharp whack to a stubborn sow's rump to get her moving. When I was little, I would sometimes take hold of his hand and marvel at how small my own hand felt in his. I could feel its strength. It was nothing for him to open a stubborn jar of pickles or haul a couple of five-gallon pails filled with grain or potatoes.

Dad’s hands seemed to enjoy making surprises for us: wooden tops, whistles carved from tree branches, little knitting devices created from Mom’s leftover cotton thread spools. In the days before mega-toy stores, it was nothing for my dad to fashion scraps of metal and lumber into some great play things. I don’t remember asking for a swing, sandbox, or seesaw, but there they were one day. And, oh, the countless hours of fun we had playing on them. There was also the time we came home from school to find a newly-built desk, just our size, sitting in our bedroom. Too small for adult legs to fit comfortably under now, it still has a place in our family, that little red-hued mahogany desk Dad lovingly built for us.

Yes, Papa’s hands could rummage through junk piles and find the neatest treasures at an auction or garage sale. They were hands clever enough to recycle bits and pieces into a ‘brand new’ bicycle, strong enough to dig fence post holes with a hand auger, and, in later years, they were coordinated enough to use a small needle to hand stitch the many family quilts Mom sewed. Whether he designed a go-cart with his young son or birdhouses with his grandsons; woodworked oak shelves for Mom and doll cradles for his granddaughters; whether he refurbished and fortified work-worn wheelbarrows for kids who now had gardens of their own (often painting them in his favourite jolly red or John Deere green)—these deeds all represented Dad’s own brand of 'I love you'.

Dad’s hard-working hands also knew how to be kind, and they never struck us in anger. They were safe hands. As a young father, he cheerfully changed wet diapers and crawled on his hands and knees, so my little sister and I could play hairdresser with his reddish blonde hair. Later, as a grandpa, his hands would joyfully reach out for toddling grandbabies, settling them on his knee and planting big fat kisses on their chubby cheeks. Dad never felt nervous or shy around the little ones. Perhaps small children posed no threat; they made no demands for conversation, happy just to play with his reading glasses and sit on his quiet lap. He never grabbed out to them when they weren’t quite ready for his bear-hugs, but often you’d find a youngster tucked in the crook of Grandpa’s arm as they both snoozed in the big La-Z-Boy recliner.

As a girl, I accepted my dad’s quiet and unassuming manner and was comfortable with it. However, as I matured into adulthood, my own secret desire for more affirming words and physical expressions made me long for something less restrained, maybe even more ‘traditional’ from him. And then I came across a book by author Gary Chapman entitled, The Five Love Languages. Based on his own research, Chapman explained that people tend to express their love in five basic ways: words of affirmation, physical touch, quality time, gifts, and acts of service. It suddenly dawned on me—Dad had always been telling me he loved me, every time he filled my pantry with sacks of potatoes and vegetables he had grown in his garden; every time he responded so willingly, almost eagerly, to my requests for something from his workshop or help with building a new fence.

His gifts and acts of service took on a whole new meaning for me. This was how he said, “I love you”. I now understood the love language he used. And I translated that into what was my own key love language: words of affirmation. I let his actions speak the words I had wanted to hear. Finally understanding, I settled into that knowing. Gifts of love don’t come only in the shape of flower bouquets, greeting cards, or beribboned packages from department stores; they come to us in as many creative ways as there are people in this world. Although I always appreciated what he did for me, I came to truly cherish the kind gestures, generous deeds, and quiet ways my dad chose, maybe even dared, to show his affection. I quit looking for something Dad could not give and received with joy what he could.

The character Jacob in a movie I saw years ago (the Hallmark film Sarah Plain and Tall), responded to Sarah when she observed that he wasn’t good with words. His reply: “Sometimes words aren’t good enough”.  Perhaps Dad would agree.

At the writing of this, it's almost a year since those busy and loving hands were stilled. Despite the dreadfulness of my dad’s illness, something quite wonderful happened during the last couple of years of his life, and especially the last few months of his time here on earth. Some of the barriers and reservations with which Dad had guarded his inner life began to fall away, and we began to catch glimpses of the man behind all that reserve. Oh, he still didn’t say much when we visited, but there was less restraint, a new easiness between us. He liked it when I read a favourite Bible passage aloud as I sat by his bed. His hand was content to rest in mine when I’d reach out to hold it. Hugs were eagerly received and given. It was good.

Jesus once said that people will know we are His disciples by our love. Surely Dad’s crown must shine brightly for all the ways, seen and unseen, he expressed love and kindness to me and my family and also to the many others who crossed his path. Those strong, beautiful hands . . . they spoke of a love I shall always cherish and of a man I shall never forget.

❦

Happy Birthday, dearest Dad!

Sending heart hugs to everyone reading this,

and thank you for stopping by.

Brenda

My Blogging Schedule:

I post on Fridays