Those Hands

I'm trying to finalize some remarks that I've been asked to make at the funeral of a friend's father, and a question keeps coming to mind. What will cause a father's teaching to stick with his children even after his death? The answer is important.

Several years ago our son Barrett had bought a new grass trimmer. Being longer and of a different shape than his old one, he was having some difficulty in cutting a straight line with it. Stepping behind him and reaching around, I placed my hands on his. I could thus direct his movements until he got the hang of the work.

About the same time, he was attempting to sharpen a mower blade with a file. Having never done that before, his strokes were uneven and choppy. I placed my hands on his and guided the file until he was able to stroke the blade evenly enough to smooth out the rough spots.

On hearing these accounts, my wife Mary was so touched by how I had helped Barrett--with my hands on his--that she asked me to write a poem about them. My thoughts, however, were to describe what Barrett might feel after my death. In looking back at our times together, how would he view my efforts to teach him?

These little vignettes illustrate two special roles of fathers. We are supposed to help our children to "cut a straighter line" in life as well as help them "smooth out the rough spots" that they will surely encounter. If we do these two things with patient, loving hands, our influence will endure.

And if we have done our jobs well, our children should be able to say in times of crisis or decision, "My father's hands (or my mother's hands for that matter) still show me what to do." What better legacy can we leave than that?

THOSE HANDS

I felt those hands on mine today
As I tried to find a way
To do a job I knew not how to do.

They guided me with skill so rare
I knew he must have been right there
To lead me through the job he used to do.

When I was young, he'd oft come near,
With hands on mine, a gentle steer,
To trace for me the steps I'd have to do.

And when I sought the job to speed,
With kind restraint those hands would lead
To better work than I was wont to do.

Though now by death from this life freed,
He left me what he knew I'd need:
My father's hands still show me what to do.

Copyright 2000 James McAlister

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