Dad's Hands

How well I remember the black clouds rolling in seemingly from out of nowhere, blocking out the sun, and snatching any hope we had of finishing up with the hay which we had been working frantically to bale and get into the barn. I was only a young boy, working with my brother and sisters, and our job was to off-load the wagons onto the elevator and into the barn. We still had half a load to go when the rain hit. Huge drops spat out of an angry sky driven with vengeance by the wind which whipped up the chaff and dust all around us. Lightening streaked across the sky, inevitably followed by those booms which could be felt, not just heard. Doggedly, we stuck with our job till the last bale disappeared into the hole at the top of the barn. Since the barn was closer than the house, we raced for the door and huddled together in the midst of that wonderful fragrance of newly gathered hay. The metal roofed and sided barn offered a sanctuary from the rain but only amplified the fearsome thunder which crashed all around us. Instinctively we moved closer with each new onslaught, our little hearts pounding. Suddenly, a figure stepped quickly through the door, soaked to the skin, his eyes searching that great pile of hay till he found what he was looking for, and we found what we needed more than anything in the world...our hero. Scrambling up the pile, he slid in next to us and we in turn slid into his lap. The passage of time will never erase the relief I as a young boy felt as those great arms encircled us and his soft voice enquired, "everyone ok?" As if it were yesterday, I remember his great calloused hand encircling mine as he pulled us close and in the safety and security of our Daddy's arms, we rode out the storm.
 

Those hands, strong, rough, scarred, and calloused, have guided, protected, loved and anchored all of us through many a storm since that day. A thing to be feared when we had disobeyed yet somehow even then, there was security in knowing that daddy loved us enough to discipline us when we needed it which for me, was often. How thankful I am for a dad that was determined to send us along on a better path. Tirelessly those hands labored on through sometimes seemingly unbeatable odds, day after day, year after year, in order to provide us with a wonderful life. Strong as steel for the task at hand, yet gentle and loving for a sick child or injured animal. Dad was not big on "group hugs" or "sentimental phrases" I have no memories of him even saying "I love you" until the day I left for college, though he may have. What I do remember is never wondering if he loved me, I knew by his actions that he did, and I'll take that to the bank any day over sentimental, yet empty words, and unfulfilled promises.
 

I remember peeking around the corner at 3:00 o'clock in the morning and seeing those hands holding his old worn Bible as he did every day. I remember sneaking downstairs and peeking around that same corner the day after our barn burned to the ground taking with it so many hopes and dreams and unbelievable hard work, looking for reassurance that daddy hadn't changed. I remember tip-toeing back upstairs with tears flowing knowing that Daddy's great hands were still holding that same Bible and somehow, everything was going to be alright.. I remember the years He helped my mom care for her Dad who had suffered a paralyzing stroke. Those strong hands as kind as any nurse spending hours each day caring for Grampa's needs without one complaint. I remember laying in a hospital for ten days following a mis-diagnosed ruptured appendix. The highlight of my day was having Dad come and visit me after a long day of farming. Those same big, loving hands that smelled like cows, patting me on the shoulder and his quiet voice saying "how ya doing Pete?"
 

Last night, I sat again by my Dad's death bed. It hurt so bad to see my lifetime hero so frail and worn out. All those years of hard work have taken their toll. His eyes were closed giving no hint if he was awake or asleep. Bending down low so he could hear me I choked out "hello dad, it's Pete, can you hear me?" Searching his face for some sign of recognition, I saw his eyelids flicker just a bit. Desperately hoping for some response I fought the hugest lump I have ever had in my throat and croaked out my greeting again. This time the slightest smile worked at the corners of his mouth and he whispered ever so faintly "Yep". I hugged his boney shoulders as tightly as I dared and told him I loved him. There are no words to describe the kind of pain that constricted my throat and tore at my heart. Yet buried in there somewhere is the blessed assurance that I will see him again. My sisters and brother joined Shari Jenni, Katie and I and we sang as best as we could some of dad's favorite hymns. My throat closed up as we began "Face to face with Christ my Savior, face to face what will it be. When with rapture I behold Him, Jesus Christ who died for me." Gently I reached down under his blankets and found his hand, now soft and shriveled, but warm. Tears fell freely as I squeezed it gently hoping for some response. It never came. The ragged choir sang on "Face to face I shall behold him, far beyond the crystal sea. Face to face in all His glory, Jesus Christ who died for me." If he were able, I know he would have squeezed my hand one more time and said in his quiet voice, "how ya doing Pete?" And if I had been able, I would have croaked out "Not sure I can get through this storm Dad" But I will, we all will because of the glorious thought that one of these days, or nights, there will be another scarred, out-stretched hand, and it will welcome my dad to his eternal home. 

Thank you Dad. You can go now. I love you and will see you again. Pete

And this is what the family wrote for the church bulletin:

“David Haynes:  A Man of Integrity”
(written by his children)

The righteous man walks in his integrity; his children are blessed after him.
Proverbs 20:7

If Dad’s 87 years of life had to be summed up in one word, “faithfulness” would probably be the chosen word—faithful to his God, his family, his church, his community. Dad lived what he believed, taught by example, and meant what he said, without wavering. He lived a disciplined life, rising at 3:00 daily and spending the first 1½ hours with the Lord, reading, praying, and preparing his Jr. High boys’ Sunday School lesson…and then went to milk the cows. God’s Word was so treasured that for many years he memorized large sections of Scripture and motivated his children to do the same. Dad was a humble and hardworking man—few could match his strength. He was a man of few words and all listened intently to his wise and kind insights. His wife and children basked in his unconditional love, protection, and provision. Farming was hard work but Dad chose it partly as a way of being with his family. His children all had personal time with him as they took turns helping in the various farm tasks in the barn and on the hay fields during the summers. Fond memories include Dad’s rewards for our hard work—racing to the pond with him for a swim and piling into the car for ice cream. Summers also included a family tenting vacation. Once children were married, his vacations took Mom and him to the various homes, often on his Harley Davidson.

Today, his 8 children, 24 grandchildren, and 32 great grandchildren all pay tribute to a man of integrity, a man of faithfulness, a man of godly character. Farewell, Dad! We love you and miss you but know that you are with your Savior whom you served so faithfully. May we also follow in your footsteps.