The Power In Your Hands

I recently read a story titled Grandpa’s Hands. It reminded me of my Grandpa and Grandma’s hands. They were old and wrinkled, like in the story I read. They used them to survive and raise their family on the farm where I was born and spent my early years. Their hands guided me into being the man I would become.  I learned by watching them go about their daily lives on that farm.

Grandma’s hands changed my diapers. Her hands showed me how to tie my shoes or put on my boots when I was young. They combed my hair for a trip to town. They held my face when she told me that she loved me. They taught me how to fold my hands in prayer. Those same hands lay me down to sleep.

Her hands showed me how to feed the chickens, get eggs for her from their nests, and butcher them to feed us. Those same hands taught me how to gather vegetables for her from the garden to can and cook. She also taught me how to use my hands to haul water from the spring for cooking, washing dishes, and washing hands.

The hands of Grandpa were always rough, sticky or wet. Other times, they were raw or bent and broken. It was from all the work he had to do around the farm for us to survive. He took my hands in his hands and showed me how to milk the cows and feed the pigs. Those hands spanked me when needed.

He used his hands to pass down his old fishing equipment and squirrel rifle to me. Then, those same hands taught me how to use them. Doing that formed the foundation for my love of the great outdoors and what I would do with my life.

Grandpa and Grandma have been gone for many years. I am now older than they were when they went home to heaven. I still remember their wrinkled hands.  I look down at my hands as I write this. They are now wrinkled like theirs were. Not from doing what they endured. It is from years of trying to take care of my family. As well as, enjoying and writing about the great outdoors that God blessed us all with.

My hands helped teach my kids and grandkids to fish, hunt, and camp under the stars. They have helped them and other kids reel in countless fish. I have placed my hands on many deer and turkeys as I thanked them for giving their life to feed my family. These hands have built many campfires and have taken countless pictures of kids and grandkids with their first squirrel, deer, turkey, or fish.

These hands held a son close as he cried when his dog died. They hugged another son when he got his first deer as a grown man. My hands wiped away my tears when I was the Best Man at both of their weddings.

My hands held a granddaughter close when she missed her mom and dad. My hands her hands as I wiped away her tears and told her grandma and I love her to God and back. When a grandson won a basketball game, baseball game, or fishing tournament, my hands gave him a high five and hugged him.

Maybe the most important thing I have ever done with my hands was when our youngest son and his wife adopted a little boy from Guatemala. A year later, they adopted his brother. I would tell them I loved them but I felt like I needed to do something different than say the words so they would better understand.

One day, I reached over and held their hands in mine. I squeezed them three times. I told them it meant I love you, without saying the words. That simple gesture became our special thing throughout their years of growing up. Every time we visited them in Wisconsin, or they would come to see us, they would squeeze my hand three times. I would squeeze their hand back three times. No words were spoken. They would smile. I did too.

As they got older,  we would text back and forth, and put three-hand squeeze emojis at the end of our text. When they got to be teenagers, my son told me, “Don’t expect the boys to do that hand squeeze thing with you anymore. We can’t even get hugs from them.”

Not long after he told me that, my wife and I drove to Kansas for our oldest grandson’s wedding. When the boys, excuse me, the teenagers, saw us they came running across the room and jumped on me. Then they reached down and grabbed my hand and squeezed it three times. They are now seventeen and eighteen. Sometimes, the three- hand squeeze emojis are still at the bottom of their text to me.

Our son is battling cancer. When I first heard about it, I called him. He said, “Dad, we are going to take this one day at a time and put it in God’s hands.” His positive attitude has helped his mom and me through this, and everyone that knows him.

Later, I got on my computer to find whose quote he was using when he said that. There was no one who had said it like he did. It was his quote. We had wooden plaques of his quote made up to sell at a fundraiser in Wisconsin and at our church to help with all their expenses. I also have his quote on the rear window of my truck. I will never know how many people were behind me in traffic or at a stoplight that read his quote and it helped them with something they were going through.

Right now, he and his wife are getting ready to go on a kayak fishing trip to Florida with his wife’s sister and husband. A few weeks after they return, my other son and grandson are going to Wisconsin to go walleye fishing with him. Not long after, he and his wife will be going to the Fox River to open up their weekend getaway place where he and his wife will do a lot more kayak fishing together.

He is not sitting around feeling sorry for himself. He is remaining positive and trusting God through it all. But, his battle with cancer continues.

Sundays at our church, I stand before everyone and give announcements and give them what I call “Something to Think About”. It is usually a short story that I hope will touch the hearts and minds of people there and prepare them to hear the message our pastor is about to preach.

After I lead them in prayer, I look out at the crowd and say, “Whatever you are facing in your life, as our son says, take it one day at a time and put it in God’s hands.” I then raise my right hand and squeeze it together three times. They know the story of our grandsons and the three hand squeezes. They raise their hand and squeeze it three times back to me. Many have also told me they now do the three hand squeezes with their family and it has come to mean more to them than the words.

Our services are also on YouTube and Facebook. I am always amazed at the number of people from all over America who find a way to contact me and tell me how the story of our son and his “Take it one day at a time and put it in God’s hands”, and the story of our grandsons and the three hand squeezes has touched and made a difference in their lives.

As life goes on and my body starts to wear down, my hands still hold me up and lay me down. My old wrinkled hands continue to fold in prayer. When my time comes, my hands are what God will take to lead me home. I like to think my grandmother will be there to put my face in her hands and tell me she loves me.

Until then, my old wrinkled hands continue to help me get out to enjoy nature. My old wrinkled hands help me write stories encouraging others to get out in God’s great outdoors. They will continue to hold my wife’s hand and squeeze it three times. I will continue to shake the hands of as many people as I can to welcome them to church until I am no longer there to do that.

I hope my grandsons pass the tradition of three hand squeezes on to their kids and grandkids. Hopefully, our sons and my other grandkids will one day have good memories of what their dad and mom and grandma and papa did with their hands. I pray they will all continue to pass it on to future generations of our family.

Whatever you are facing in this crazy world we live in today, remember to take it one day at a time and put it in God’s hands. May you also discover the power that is in your hands.