Hands

I've always had a strange thing for looking at hands.
I think John has my father's hands.
It's funny when people say things like this about little babies because they don't really look like anyone but themselves. But if his hands resembled anyone's, it would be my dad's.
I think this is a tremendous compliment to give to someone so young.
Dad's hands look masculine and strong but gentle. His hands are wide and thick, providing him with a handshake not to be trifled with. I love my dad's hands.
But more than just looking at his hands, I love what his hands do.
His hands have written out thousands of Scripture verses to be meditated on and memorized. They have written thousands of sermons to challenge and encourage God's people. His hands have comforted many wounded hearts and shown them God's healing. They have pointed many people to the truth through his faithful prayers and guidance.
My father's hands have held my mother's for over thirty years now. He has walked by her side through some of life's stormiest days, supporting her with those very same hands.
Those hands have held his children with tenderness and love albeit mixed with a little fear and trembling. They have taught those children to pray and to follow the God of their father with their whole hearts.
My father's hands have wiped tears from my eyes and held me in those times when life just didn't make sense. And it was his hand that gave me away to the man he trusted with my love and my life almost three years ago.
I love knowing that every morning my dad's hands are raised to heaven in prayer for me and my family. His hands still help guide and support my life. His hands have been so faithful.
I love that John has his Papa's hands. I pray to God that his hands will be just like my dad's. That they will serve the Lord and love his family as my father has done.
I can think of no greater desire for my son.