My Parents' Hands

My Parents’ Hands
Written by Beverly Duerksen, after Dad’s passing, 1/6/11

When I think of my parents, I see their hands. Two pair of hands---so different, yet so similar. My father’s hands were rough and strong; my mother’s, smooth and soft. Yet their hands held a common purpose---to serve---God and others. Their hands were joined together for nearly 65 years--- loving, working, and serving their Lord, side by side. You rarely saw one without the other. Hands joined in unity, but each with their unique gifts and talents.
My dad’s hands were friendly hands. His handshake was firm and strong. When he gripped your hand, you knew you had a friend that would stand by your side. His smile and hearty hello were sincere and you knew he was genuinely glad to see you. His handshake was not for the weak or fainthearted. My mom’s hands were loving hands. Her touch reached to the soul and brought comfort and encouragement to all she met. Her hands bandaged our wounds, corrected our wrongs, and hugged away our tears.
My dad’s hands were creative hands. I always believed that Dad could make anything. He could fix it, remodel it or make it from scratch. His hands held a hammer and saw with skill and strength. His furniture was not only beautiful, but sturdy and indestructible. We teased him, saying that his woodwork would never come apart in a tornado. He never spared the nails!
My mother’s hands were busy hands. They sewed and mended, cleaned and cooked. Her skills in the kitchen were well known and her rolls were famous near and far. She sewed and mended our clothes, and taught us to do the same. She taught us to cook and can , and be frugal with our resources.
My dad’s hands were godly hands. They held God’s word every Sunday, as he taught the adult Sunday school class for many years. As a child, I remember seeing Dad sitting on the couch in the living room every Saturday night, studying his Sunday School lesson. If we asked him to do something else, he would say, “No, first, I’ve got to study my SS lesson.” He would read the Scriptures, and study the lesson book, highlighting the words, and cutting and pasting stories and illustrations in the teacher’s book to use the next morning. As lay leader, dad would often preach from the pulpit. His voice was strong and clear as he held the Word of God and read it with confidence and sincerity of heart. His voice rang out loud in the congregation when we sang the hymns every Sunday. I can still hear him now, as he sang old favorites like Holy, Holy, Holy and How Great Thou Art.
Mom’s hands were prayerful hands. As a child I remember seeing mom kneeling by her bed, praying at the end of the day, for her children, her church, and her walk with her Lord. Family devotions were a regular habit in our home and I remember both mom and dad reading from the Daily Bread and praying for our family, our church, and missionaries in foreign countries.
My dad’s hands were gardening hands. He had the prettiest flowers around. Many a day we would sit on the front porch and see cars go by very slowly, just so they could see “Harold’s flowers”. He loved to dig in the dirt and plant petunias, pansies, marigolds, morning glories and roses. Mom’s hands were helping hands. Whenever dad was in the yard, mowing or planting flowers, mom was there helping him, pulling weeds and picking up sticks and twigs. And she always watered the flowers with her dish water. To this day I still believe that it was because of dad’s green thumb and that dish water that the flowers were so beautiful.
** Our Dad’s and Mom’s hands were together hands. In their later years, though their mind and body failed them, their love was still strong. Before they moved to Ohio, Pastor Hank came by the house to visit them. He asked dad what was the best thing that ever happened to him. Dad smiled and pointed in mom’s direction and said, “SHE IS! I wouldn’t be anybody if it weren’t for her!” One of my last memories of dad and mom was this last summer when we were sitting in the living room of St. Catherine’s Manor. Dad reached out and clasped mom’s hand in his. Mom tried to move their wheelchairs closer. Dad said, “I still love you, honey.” He patted her hand, then took it in his. Two pair of hands but ONE HEART---deeply in love with each other. **
Dad’s and Mom’s hands were serving hands. They touched the hearts and souls of all they met. They were always reaching out to others in their time of need, lending a helping hand wherever they could. They were selfless in their service, never wanting recognition for any kind deed or gift given.
When I looked at Dad and Mom’s earthly hands for the last time I saw the hands of 2 SERVANTS, joined together in unified service for their Lord and Savior. They are the hands that I want to have----hands that welcome, hands that love, hands that create, hands that teach and pray, and hands that serve God and others. May God grant us all godly hands such as theirs, that point others to the One whose hands were pierced with a nail----the Carpenter of Galilee, Jesus Christ.
**Personal recollection, not read at the funeral**

A Guiding Hand by Kenneth W. Bielby

Another poem that reminds me of our loss.

A Guiding Hand
by Kenneth W Bielby

There's many a signpost that shows the way
Through out the life we live
But there's never a signpost like a fathers hand
And the help, that that hand, can give,

The touch of his hand, from the time we were young
To the time of our final goodbye
Is a feeling, in life, remaining unsung
As his spirit rises on high,

But life must go on, as the days we must face
But will never, fill up the hole
So we continue to live and strive with the pace
and the trials that strengthens the soul

I will never forget that hand from the past
That guided my life for so long
No! Never, I'm sure, for life travels fast
But the memory, remains, ever strong

I love you Dad, is a phrase little said
for a man’s not a man when his heart can be seen
Alive, it’s not spoken, but rather when dead
Too late!, a man cries, for what should have been

The Carpenter's Hand, by Kenneth W. Bielby

Dad passed away on Thursday, January 6, 2011, exactly one year from when he moved to St Catherine's Manor of Washington Courthouse, Ohio. I searched the internet to find a poem that reminded me of my Carpenter Dad, and this is what I found:

The Carpenter's Hand
by Kenneth W Bielby

There is in my memory a friend that I knew,
Whose friendship I treasured – along with a few,
Who gained my respect by the life that he led,
Whose testimony was more by his life than what he said,

I’ll remember that time, the time that we met,
When I grasped his big hand, and met his firm set,
His smile was as big as his carpenter’s hands,
And the love that he showed could flood our dry lands

The one thing I remembered was this carpenter’s hands,
Their size and their strength could hold like steel bands
But the longer I looked, around and a loft,
I sensed they were tender and gentle and soft,

The guidance they gave and the direction they chose,
And the help to others our God only knows,
They could wrestle with timber, hold a small baby with care,
Give praise to the Father with his hands in the air,

At the time of this writing the end is now past,
for the Father has claimed him and resting at last,
This carpenter’s hand is clasped, from above
By Jesus, the carpenter, the carpenter of love.

Grandma's Hands

Received as a email forward, sometime in 2010. It reminds me of mom. . This picture is called "Five Generations of Women", taken by an unknownperson shortly before her 93 year-old Grandmother passed away last year. The photo, shown below, features the hands of her Grandmother, Mom, Sister, Niece and Great-Niece. It fits nicely with the poem below. GRANDMA'S HANDS Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was OK Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she said in a clear voice strong. "I didn' t mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I explained to her. "Have you ever looked at your hands," she asked. "I mean really looked at your hands?" I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making. Grandma smiled and related this story: "Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. "They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war. "They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special. They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse. "They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. "These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ." I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandma's hands and led her home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of grandma. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face. When you receive this, say a prayer for the person who sent it to you, and watch God's answer to prayer work in your life. Let's continue praying for one another. Passing this on to anyone you consider a friend will bless you both. Passing this on to one not yet considered a friend is something Christ would do. -- Author Unknown

The Dash by Linda Ellis

Mom passed away on Saturday, Nov. 27, 2010. Joanne read "The Dash" at Mom's funeral service, Dec. 3, 2010

The Dash
by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the second with tears,
but he said that what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth,
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars, the house, the cash,
what matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard,
are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
You could be at “dash mid-range.”

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
with your life’s actions to rehash...
would you be pleased with the things they have to say
about how you spent your dash?