Dad's Imperfect Hand

For the last 23 years, Father's Day has been a bittersweet holiday for me.  In 1985, my presumably healthy, active dad suffered a devastating heart attack and died shortly thereafter.  The last time I held my dad's hand, he was failing quickly.  Even then, he squeezed back as only he could do. 

I've been thinking for the past couple of days about Dad's hand.  It was his right one that was so unique.  With only an eighth grade education, Dad was an ingeneous tool-and-die maker for an airplane manufacturer, and became a crucial advisor to well-educated aeronautics engineers.  Long before I was born, he lost all of his pinkie finger and half of his ring finger in a machine accident, permanently deforming his hand.

As a child, I was embarrassed about Dad's hand.  When he reached out to greet a stranger, the missing fingers were immediately noticable and Dad would often apologize.   But after time, it has become those remaining fingers and the strength they symbolized that I remember most about him, and of which I am now most proud.

With that three-fingered hand, Dad and Mom hand-constructed the house in which they raised their family.   As second to the youngest, I missed the chaotic building phase, and knew only the security and comfort the home they built provided.  Coming from southern Missouri to St. Louis to find work, much of my parents' Ozark upbringing came with them.  Dad kept things simple.  It was shortly after I was married and left home that he finally saw the need to install a hot water heater.   

Sitting with Dad at the dinner table is where I learned about politics.  His three-fingered hand would help him emphasize his viewpoint and explain his frustrations. For the most part, it wasn't state or national politics that geared him up as much as church politics.  As head of the deacon board, our phone would ring often with church members seeking Dad's counsel.  Church activities were always an integral part of our lives. 

We had lots of fun.  Daddy would join us around the piano often, and he and Mom would beautifully harmonize as they sang southern gospel duets.   Dad's hands taught me how to fish, garden, hold a bat and spike a volleyball. Those strong hands taught me to drive his red pickup truck with the standard transmission.  His hand never struck out in anger.   

I held onto Dad's three-fingered hand the day the tornado ravaged our farm, and stood beside him as he told reporters how the twister ruined his barn but didn't harm his family.  I held on when I was afraid and relaxed when his hand was nearby.

That same strong three-fingered hand squeezed mine as he gave me away on my wedding day.  He and I both knew at that moment things would never be the same between us. Only after experiencing it myself can I now understand the mixture of joy, relief and sorrow a parent feels when he or she gives away their pride and joy to a young, unproven stranger.  Dad's hand didn't flinch when he let go.

Hands can be the instruments of violence, disrespect and pain.  Their touch can also soothe, comfort and convey the deepest meaningful sentiments.  Hands can be tough and calloused, yet express the tenderest of emotions.  They can be soft and smooth, yet demonstrate unimaginable strength and power. 

The last time I spoke with Dad was just days before his sudden parting.  He was calling to check on our young family, concerned about a crisis we were enduring 300 miles away.  As always, he spent his last days caring about those who cared so much for him.

We're told in heaven our bodies will be perfect.  The next time I reach out and touch my father's hand and feel him squeeze back, I hope I will feel his unique grasp once again, because in my heart I know Dad's imperfect hand was exactly as God intended it to be.

Happy Father's Day.

Comments

[Jeanette]

Thanks for sharing your story; it touched me.

[Jon Zahm]

Sounds like a wonderful man. A true leader of his family.
Thanks for sharing this, Fran. I think of Chad Koppie, another dedicated farmer and family man who lost part of his hand in a farming accident.