My Father's Hands

My Father’s Hands


My father passed away a year ago from a brain bleed after a massive stroke. I was with him in the ER the

first evening he arrived. There was a lot of activity in his room. Several nurses rushed in and out. He looked at me with a broad smile, rambled some gibberish, and then laughed as if he just said something hysterical. I smiled back with a forced laugh. Shortly after that he closed his eyes and it was the last time I saw them. I am so grateful I was able to be with him in those last moments of consciousness, even though his ability to really communicate had been severely compromised. Blood was quickly pooling around his brain, cutting off oxygen. I had no idea it was the last time to hear his voice or see him smile. Now, a cherished, but painful memory for me.

Our family was never a touchy-feely kind of family, but in the moment, holding my fathers hand felt like the right thing to do. I imagined somewhere in his mind he might be scared, so I reached down and held his right hand. Honestly, it was awkward and a little uncomfortable, but I reminded myself that he was my Dad. It saddened me that it did not come naturally. I wanted to be comfortable with him in that way, as I should have been. The doctor had not said it yet, but he was dying. They were waiting for a helicopter to arrive to take him to another hospital an hour away. As the staff continued to come and go, I tried to move out of a nurse's way and recoiled back like a slinky. I looked at our hands bewildered, and then over to the nurse. She had no idea what I was thinking, even feeling in that very moment. Suddenly there was a burning sensation in my chest and that awful knot you get in your throat when you’re trying to hold back tears. It would be a flood really. Emotions and feelings bottled up for as long as I can remember would gush out like one of those Yellowstone geysers. But it would not look so pretty. I felt the discomfort of being in such a public place, one too foreign for such a personal breakdown such as that. I tried to distract myself from the reality that my father was holding my hand. He was unconscious, but strangely, holding on to me tightly. My hand felt no sensation of a grip though. It was as if something unseen bound us together for that moment. It was the first significant contact of love I had received from him in several decades. I knew he loved me, but not because he was affectionate towards me. I knew he loved me simply because he was my father. As hard as it is to admit, that had never been enough for me. In that moment I felt the weight of my desire to have a deeper relationship with him. I wanted more than to just know he loved me. I desperately needed a close, nurturing relationship, a unique bond you can only have with your father. My heart raced a little as I considered how I might try to change that after all this. I felt empty and helpless at that moment; not just because of his declining health, but the conflicting emotions of my heart. How after four decades do we change that? There were so many, “I wish I had…” moments in my life with him. A bazillion more, “I wish he had…” moments. Both painful to think about. I didn’t know yet, as I stood there next to his bed, all those opportunities to share with him everything I needed to say, it was over. His earthly body was dying and soon it would be in the embrace of God our Father. 

Now, when I think about having an affectionate and nurturing father, I think about God because that’s exactly who He is. I can still have that kind of father if I let God be God. It took me a long time to fully realize that. The darkness of the world easily clouded my vision of who He really is. The enemy lied and told me that God didn’t really love me or want me, not really. I spent many years feeling like God was up there far away and I was down here. I always thought I had to somehow reach Him instead of the other way around. And I certainly believed wholeheartedly that He was a god, not a personal and affectionate father. So I spent most of my life pushing Him away and rejecting Him, while at the same time accusing Him of not being near me. All along I was projecting my feelings about my earthly father onto my Heavenly Father, as many of us do. Some people are lucky to have a Dad who loves them in such a deep and personal way, but the truth is, we all have that. Maybe we don’t have an earthly father like that, but we still have a Heavenly Father that is. His hand is always outstretched towards us just waiting for us to take His hand.

I think when I die and go to Heaven I will spend a lot of time with my earthly father. I think we both will want a second chance to really love one another. Maybe we’ll start by just holding hands.


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