Those hands lived life

I was struck by the size of the man’s hands.

They were huge and powerful, weathered, but still powerful. Though his face was thinner than it had been and his body just a fraction of its former self, death couldn’t diminish the size of those hands.

I couldn’t help but smile and wonder how many acres those hands had tilled, no doubt, for many years without the convenience of modern machinery. It must have been a sight to see his tiny wife’s hands cupped inside his.

It was his hands which built the house which later bustled with children. It was his hands which tilled the garden and threw corn to the cattle, his hands which were stained with grease from fixing the cars, his hands which bled as they scraped against the barbed wire fence.

And, yes, it was his hands which reminded his children to mind their manners, play fair, work hard and love always.

He held each daughter as he walked her down the isle, then wiped the tears from his eyes with those hands. Wasn’t it just yesterday he had cradled that tiny pink bundle in those huge hands? Wasn’t it just yesterday he had swooped her off the ground and placed her atop his head for a ride?

Wasn’t it just yesterday they played catch and went fishing and carved pumpkins? Wasn’t it just yesterday he had placed his hands over hers as she drove the old truck for the first time?

Those hands guided his wife over the dance floor. They shook the hands of the preacher each Sunday and even washed the dishes when no one was looking.

Now, those hands, those giant hands, rested on the man’s chest. Their work was done — til the Lord needs help with that old tractor that won’t start.