Happy Father's Day!

I wrote the following tribute to my dad a couple of years ago, but the words still ring true today as much as ever.

It is said that a man’s hands reflect his personality. Join me in this look at my father’s hands, and you will see him as I do.

I have always admired my dad and his hands. In fact, my first memories of him are more aptly described as memories of his hands. I remember grasping his finger as a toddler, his patient presence guiding me as we walked together. His pinky finger was a handful for my young hands! While my own hands have grown larger, they still aren’t as large as his. I believe his hands are larger than most. He has thick, broad fingers and wide palms. His hands are powerful, yet gentle and nurturing; rough and scarred but strong and caring; sometimes dirty and sometimes clean.

Despite his office job, my father’s hands are powerful, working hands. Dad built a playroom, jungle gym, and even bedroom furniture for his three daughters. He was handy about the house and made most of the improvements himself, from bricklaying to installing a wood stove. Yet these powerful hands turned gentle in the presence of his daughters. He was active in our young lives, playing with us after he got home from work, and holding us on his lap as he read the Sunday comics aloud. And I have seen him cradle my infant nephew in his nurturing hands. In fact, it was in my father’s hands that my nephew gave his first smile.

My father’s hands bear scars and rough spots. Some of these result from the sort of handyman work he performs at home, but others are the result of accidents. But the strength in those hands has remained consistent over time. Recently we went through a difficult time as a family. Some of Dad’s scars originated in this trying time: a Cuisinart accident injuring his finger required stitches. But Dad’s hands didn’t fail him -- he soon learned the cooking skills he’d never needed before, and remains a safe and skilled chef to this day. During this time, I suffered from deep despair that bordered on self-destruction. But my father’s strong hands never let go of me, supporting me through my trials and saving me in the depths of my anguish.

Sometimes Dad’s hands are dirty, but this is because my father is a man who gets involved. I have fond memories of many projects with Dad: changing the oil, patching the car’s muffler, installing the home electrical outlets, planting a garden, taking photographs of nature, balancing the checkbook, watching the Packers on TV. He actually slogged through my calculus textbook in an effort to help me learn calculus, even though he knew next to nothing about it. It was thanks to his helping and encouraging hands that I became a scientist.

Yet his hands are clean when it is important. I have memories of him coming inside from some outdoor project before dinner and washing his hands. The dirty water swirling down the drain would be so dark with soil! He would sit down at the table, this wild man smelling of sweat, with mussed-up hair and flecks of dirt caught in the moisture of his brow -- but spotless hands. His hands are clean when it counts. My dad is a man of integrity, who rises above the petty and picayune. He has an even temper and an easy-going disposition, and confidence without a hint of cockiness. He exhibits respect for others even when they disrespect him. His hands have never been used to threaten or harm or to make rude gestures. During the difficult times, he was careful to treat all parties with respect and avoid doing anything he would later regret. He tried to keep his hands clean in a situation where most people would dig into the mud.

According to Red Green, “If the women don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.” I believe that this description of my father’s hands has shown not only his handiness, but the handsomeness of his character.