Yesterday I watched my father as he worked around his home as he often does. He’s now sixty-five years old and as active as any man less than half his age. As he was trying to fix something I couldn’t help but to watch his hands. I saw tough, calloused hands that had darkened from years of working on cars, lawnmowers, and houses. His hands began to tell me a story about him that I had never taken the time to listen to before.
In an era where fathers have made their presence scarce, I have always had mine. In fact, my father was a single dad. My mother was never around and while I had my grandmother he always took his responsibility seriously and tried to do the best he could to be a parent to a little girl who always had her head in the clouds.
Looking at his hands I saw the history of a man who had his own difficult relationship with his father but, as a parent himself had made a conscious choice to use his abilities to care for me. He could have easily done as many men have which is go off on his own and live his life doing whatever he wanted with no thought to the family who needed him. When he acquired me at the age of six he was working a lucrative job in another state and he gave all of that up. He gave it up to care for what was important to him: me. So now as I sat and watched my father work and I looked at his worn down hands I reminded myself of all the things he has done on my behalf.
Of course we have had tumultuous times in our relationship. As a teenager I struggled with not having a mother and I took every opportunity possible to rebel. I was basically a good kid, but when you begin to experience puberty and you have a man making suggestions about what you should wear and your hair it wasn’t always easy. Not more than once I was forced to go to school with some type of hairdo that my father had styled. When I was at an age that I thought I could begin dating he basically forbid me to. He hated all the guys I brought home and I would always argue the “But, I love him” defense and he would tell me exactly what the boy’s intentions were. I never wanted to listen. But, it never failed he was always right. So we had more than our fair share of fights.
Now as an adult though I have come to appreciate all of his advice as well as all the hard work and effort that he put into raising me. That brings me back to the point of this post. As I sat and watched him work, this serious expression on his face-his hands though experiencing arthritis-still strong and capable I saw myself. It reminded me of how year after year he worked to make sure I had what I needed just as I have tried to do with my own children.
As I watched him working I had to reconcile with myself that I never really showed him the level of appreciation that he deserved. Sometimes we define our parents by all the things that we feel they have done wrong. One, I secretly blamed him because my mother wasn’t around. Growing up I just knew that somehow he was responsible and I always resented him for it. But now as an adult in my own situation where I am the single parent and understand the dynamics of the male and female relationship I see that the fact that he chose to care for me is evidence that things weren’t as black and white as they seemed.
So as I sat there and listened as my father’s hands told their story it was at that point that my own history became intertwined with his. I was reminded that I became who I am today because of him. I had someone to guide me. Even now that I am an adult my father always provides me with some type of positive support. Even though my father and I are of different faiths, if I feel like I am getting bogged down and overwhelmed he always reminds me to trust in God. When he sees me struggling with my own responsibility he tells me stories of how he met his challenges.
As I sit watching him work I am reminded of a scripture that says: “All that your hand finds to do, do with your very power..” My father has done that. He has done that in the best way he knows how and many times for my sake. He has lived a large portion of his life using his strength to help me carry my own loads. His hands are the evidence of it.
Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/frozenminds/ /CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Toya Bryant
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