Dad’s Hands

By Tamara Hicks Smith

 

Many years ago those tender hands, much younger then,

Cradled me gently while he spoke the reverent words

Giving me my name and blessing—

Promises filled with hope for the life that would fill the years ahead.

 

And though I don’t remember it,

I am sure those same strong hands grasped my little ones,

Gently urging me to take my first steps,

Tie my shoelaces together, and swim those first strokes.

 

I do remember the summer at Corn Creek

When those agile hands held me under the spigot at the campground

To rinse away the Salmon River sand

Before gently zipping me into a sleeping bag, right next to his.

 

When I was eight, I stepped down into the font.

His gentle hands took mine, just like we had practiced,

And, after speaking those familiar words,

He lowered me into the waters of baptism.

 

I remember my grandfather’s hands the day he was buried.

They resembled Dad’s hands.

Dad, whose loving hands gently placed his own temple clothes

On Grandpa before closing the coffin.

 

Following one of the times when I chose wrong

Reprimand was necessary.

Even then the firm hands were gentle as they

Exacted the consequences that taught me to obey.

 

Through the years,

I am sure those same faithful hands, older then,

Were clasped in humility

As prayerful pleas were made on my behalf.

I observed countless acts

Of service, work and love

Done by those tireless hands over the years—

Much like the faithful, obedient hands of the Savior.

 

Even leisure time for those hardworking hands

Has been spent doing things for others.

Woodworking, a hobby, has resulted in a skill

That creates many priceless family treasures.

 

Often, when I was no longer a little girl,

I went to Dad requesting wisdom I did not have.

Those humble hands were placed gently on my head

And wisdom from Heavenly Father was mine, through Dad’s Priesthood

 

As a woman, I sought the same comfort

And those wise hands again rested on my head,

Promising me the deepest wish of my heart:

Children of my own.

 

Today those tender hands, lined and bent with the years

Of service and work and love

Cradle y own little ones:  products of the faith and obedience

Dad’s hands taught me to have.

 

 

Thank you, Dad, for your example, love and acceptance.