When my father was a teenager, he had an accident with a piece of farm machinery. Let’s just say that after that tragic event, the highest number he could count to on his right hand, including his thumb, was… well, one. And yes, he was right-handed.
Growing up, anytime a new friend came over, I’d inevitably hear them gasp, “OH MY GOODNESS, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR DAD’S HAND?!” I’d look just as shocked and shout, “I DON’T KNOW! WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS HAND?!” Then I’d run out and ask him. Eventually, I realized they just hadn’t seen it before. To me, it was just my daddy’s hand, nothing strange about it.
I remember waking up from nightmares as a little girl. I’d tiptoe to his side of the bed and whisper, “Daddy, I’m scared.” Without saying a word, he would lift the covers, and that hand, his hand, would hold me close. I always felt safe in my daddy’s embrace. Missing fingers never slowed him down. My dad was the toughest, hardest-working man I’ve ever known. He also battled heart disease, including heart attacks, bypass surgeries, and many hospital visits. But every time he came home, he immediately went right back up to the barn. No sooner had he swapped the hospital gown than he was back in his barn clothes, milking cows, driving the tractor, doing all the things a dairy farm demands. The cows and crops weren’t about to wait for his recovery.
Over the years, those hands raised three kids, thousands of acres of crops, and hundreds of head of cattle. I never once heard him complain about the work. The weather? Absolutely. He was a farmer, after all. But his hand and his heart never held him back, and he never once used them as an excuse.
Now, as I watch my eldest son with my granddaughter, I see how his strong, grown hands lift her up and hold her close, the way she climbs into his lap and nestles safely within his arms. My heart swells with joy, knowing there is no safer place in the world for her than being held in her Daddy’s hands..
Even though my earthly father has passed on, I find deep comfort in knowing that my Heavenly Father’s hands still hold me. They are always strong enough to lift me when I am weak, gentle enough to comfort me when I am afraid, and faithful enough to never let me go.
Isaiah 41:10
So do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
Daddy’s hands, whether scarred, deformed, weathered, or eternal, have always been the safest place I know.
On this Father’s Day, I’m especially grateful for the hands that guided me, the arms that carried me, and the quiet strength that shaped who I am. And as I watch the next generation carry that love forward, I’m reminded that a daddy’s hands never stop holding on, they just reach a little farther, love a little deeper, and leave a legacy that lasts forever.
To the daddies who show up with strong hands and soft hearts,
To the grandfathers who share wisdom through quiet presence,
And to the men who step in and stand tall in the role of fatherhood, we celebrate you today and every day.
Wishing you a very Happy Father’s Day!
-Katie