I cannot stop thinking about hands.

Last week my mom fell, and I went to stay at her home for a few days. While I was with my mom, my dad’s youngest brother stopped by for a quick visit. As Uncle Ken sat down in the rocker, I caught sight of his hands. I couldn’t bring my eyes to look away. The entire half-hour he visited, my eyes were drawn over and over again to his hands. 

Inwardly, I felt embarrassed, wondering if my mom or Uncle Ken noticed I kept staring at his hands. There was nothing strange or unusual about his hands that was causing me to look so steadily at them. The simple truth was that I felt captivated by the hands of my uncle because they looked exactly like my daddy’s hands.

This September will mark nine years since my dad passed away. I don’t think in all that time I have even once stopped to ponder his hands. Many nights I have laid in my bed trying to remember the sound of my dad’s laugh or the color of his eyes or the way that little dimple that would appear when he was being silly. (The “lying dimple”, my mom used to call it because it would show up any time he would try to trick her.) But not a single night in all those years have I tried to bring up a memory of what his hands looked like.

Why, I suppose that up until last week, I had completely forgotten what Dad’s hands even looked like. And then suddenly, I was reminded. 

I recall that my dad had long, thin fingers. I inherited that trait from him.

My mom used to comment a lot on my long fingers, I guess because she had short, stubby fingers on her tiny little hands. I always felt like my hands were too big, especially when compared to my mother’s daintier hands. But later on, I had a change of heart felt like maybe long fingers were special … which is probably directly because of my piano teacher. 

Sweet Mrs. Ella Mae taught me piano lessons for 8 years. And during every single one of those childhood piano lessons, she would marvel over the fact that I had such good hands for playing the piano. Of course, Mrs. Ella Mae was one of those ladies with tiny hands and short fingers (not all that unlike those of my mom), so I guess my long fingers impressed her. I don’t know why, because even with her short fingers she could play the piano far better than me. Her fingers fairly flew over the keys!

In spite of all Mrs. Ella Mae’s efforts to turn me into a church pianist, my long fingers didn’t seem to help me learn the chords any better than any other piano student she taught. I only ever managed to sight-read notes as I had no musical ear, and I seemed to always play with a somewhat haltering tempo even after weeks of practice. Deep down, even though she never uttered a negative word to me about my piano playing, I always felt like Mrs. Ella Mae was a bit disappointed in my mediocre musical talent considering I had the “hands of a pianist.” (Her words, not mine.)

I haven’t thought about Mrs. Ella Mae and piano lessons in years. But now, all because of Uncle Ken visiting my mom and me noticing how much his hands looked like my daddy’s hands, I’m remembering all kinds of things. And the more I remembered, the more I realized that some of my favorite memories have to do with hands. 

As a child, I was fascinated with my great-grandmother’s hands. I often sat next to her in church, tracing the soft wrinkles on her hands with my fingers as I tried to listen to the sermon.I remember how the skin on her hands seemed to me to be as thin as the pages of her large, black Bible. 

When my children were babies, I loved holding their chubby hands. Nothing was sweeter than having their fat fingers curled around mine as I rocked them to sleep. Playing Pat-a-Cake and This Little Piggy with those tiny little hands. Watching them learn to use that pincer grasp … oh, those sweet little baby hands are such a precious memory to me!

One summer, three-year-old Nathan introduced me to Wilbur, his invisible friend, who he described as a turtle with “helpful human hands”. Over the next two years, Nathan shared many adventures with Wilbur and his passel of other invisible pals: Bob, Big Bob, Tiny Bob and Bobby the Lion. (Clearly, Wilbur was the stand-out among Nathan’s invisible friend, and not just for his notable hands, either.)

When Jon and I were dating, I thought the man would never hold my hand. Seriously! I think it only took him until date number 16, or about four months into our relationship, for him to grab my hand as we walked into Jason’s Deli for lunch. I didn’t know it at the time, but later he told me that he just didn’t want to rush our relationship. Whatever his reason, I decided way back then he was worth the wait. I was right — and I still think about the sweetness of that moment every time we eat at Jason’s Deli.

Shortly after we were married, Jon needed open heart surgery to replace his infected mitral valve. We sat in the pre-op room, just a curtain separating us from all the other patients, trying to not say the things going through our minds. As the nurse came to wheel him to surgery, Jon held my hand in his and squeezed it tight. “It’s going to be fine,” I said, and prayed my voice sounded more hopeful than I felt. He simply nodded as I kissed his forehead. Many hours later, as I sat next to him in the ICU, I held his hand in mine, tracing his fingers. Monitors hummed all around me. “Talk to him,” the nurse urged. So I leaned over and whispered softly, “I love you.” A second or two went by and then Jon squeezed my hand tight and held on for several long seconds. In that moment, I knew he would be okay.

Last fall, as my father-in-law lay slowly dying, three of his four children gathered in his room at the nursing home. They spent the afternoon watching football with their dad, who happened to be an avid Saints fan. After the game ended, I left to go get something from our car and returned a few minutes later to see his children all crowded around his bed, taking turns cutting his fingernails. Such an act of love for their dad. It left tears in my eyes. We didn’t know it that day, but in two months time, their dad would be gone.

I didn’t realize I had so many special memories that revolved around hands.

As always, when I start thinking obsessively about something, I always try to figure out if God wants to teach me something. To do that, I begin searching scripture to see what I can find. I really didn’t figure I would find much on hands, though.

To my surprise, what I found out is that the topic of hands can be throughout the Bible. Of course, I immediately thought of Jesus laying on his hands to heal the sick. But there were so many other stories and verses dedicated to the use of hands in Scripture. Here are a few of them:

• Jesus laid his hands on the children to bless them.
• Pontius Pilate washed his hands from the responsibility of Jesus’ crucifixion.
• After Saul was blinded on the road to Damascus, Ananias laid his hands on him and the scales fell off his eyes.
• The Proverbs 31 woman is commended for reaching out her hands to the needy.
• The Psalmist writes, “Lift up your hands in the sanctuary and praise the Lord.”

I’ve always loved the story about Moses holding up his hands as Joshua and the Israelites battled the Amalekite army. According to the book of Exodus, as long as Moses kept his hands up, the Israelites prevailed in the battle against the Amalekites. But when Moses put his hands down, the Amalekites would begin to defeat the Israelites. So it was that Aaron and Hur came to help steady Moses’ hands until Joshua and the Israelites completely defeated the Amalekites.

The list of Bible stories that revolve around the actions of someone’s hands goes on and on and on.

Have you ever sang the old spiritual “He’s got the whole world in His hands?”

Once I was singing that song with my kids as we ran a few afternoon errands. Suddenly, in the middle of our singing, Joel piped up, “God must have some REALLY big hands if He is able to hold the whole world!”

Christians like to talk about God’s hands. We encourage each other to leave our problems “in God’s hands.” We pray for the sick or the troubled and ask God to “touch them” with His hands.

Interestingly, even though God Himself doesn’t have human hands (since He isn’t human), the Bible talks a lot about the hands of God. (This is known as anthropomorphism, which is using a human trait in order to give deeper understanding to a Godly characteristic. It is a writing technique found throughout the Bible.) For example, the prophet Isaiah talks about God holding us with His mighty right hand. (Isaiah 41:10) The gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus is seated at the right hand of the power of God. (Luke 22:69)

Of all the Bible verses about God’s hands, I believe my favorite is found in Isaiah 49:16.

Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

Back when I was in college, I had a bad habit of writing notes on my hands. Generally it was something simple to jog my memory, but sometimes it was important information. The palm of my hand was a convenient place to write the note. Even if the ink smeared on my skin, I still wouldn’t lose track of it.

Stop for a moment and consider what Isaiah meant when he wrote that God has your name written on the palm of His hand. That’s how close you are to His thoughts. He is thinking of you — your activities, your worries, your fears, your hopes and dreams. All of that is right there on God’s hand. The very idea is somewhat mind blowing!

By the way, Charles Spurgeon once spoke of this “divine memorial” in one of his sermons. Check it out if you have time. It’s definitely worth the read!

I had a really good dad.

My daddy was something special. He loved me and my siblings, but not as much as.he loved our mother. And he didn’t love her as much as he loved God. The older I get the more I realize just how unique that made my dad.

I think about my dad every day. I miss his laugh and his lying dimple, our phone chats, and taking long, slow drives together down some old country road. Sometimes I am surprised at the details about him I can still remember nearly nine years after he died.

Even so, I had forgotten all about his hands … that is, until I saw Uncle Ken’s hands last week.

God’s hands are something special. He promises I am engraved on those palms that are also big enough to hold the every other person ever to have lived. That’s how deep He cares for me. That’s how deep He cares for you.

This Sunday, people all over will be celebrating Father’s Day. Some will be trying to celebrate in spite of hurting hearts. Others may not celebrate at all, unable to muster up the feelings and unwilling to fake it this year. Maybe this is you. Maybe your dad was abusive or neglectful or just too busy to notice you. Or maybe like me, you had a good Daddy who isn’t alive anymore.

Whatever the reason, God remembers you. He has you in the middle of His hand. And in case you’ve forgotten …

He’s a good, good Father.

Blessings,