Daddy's hands

My daddy's hands. This was one of the last few times we said the rosary with him. Luckily I had my iPhone and was able to capture this image.

I miss his hands. They were always so big. And strong. He could fix anything with those hands. And he always had a scrape or a scar on them. Anytime I reached out to grab his hand, I usually ended up just holding his thumb. And he would squeeze the rest of my hand. I could wrap all my fingers just around his thumb, and it fit fine, like that is where it was supposed to go. Even when he lay in the hospital bed during that last week, whenever I went to hold his hand, each time without even realizing it my hand would be clinging to his thumb. And he would still wrap his hand around mine. He couldn't talk... he didn't have the strength to stand... he could barely eat or drink. But he could still grab my hand.

When it was my turn to say goodbye before they closed the casket, I couldn't look at anything but his hands.

I know it may sound strange, but I can still feel his love, and his warmth. I think that's God's way of giving us a piece of Heaven. It reminds me of that scene from Ghost, where Patrick Swayze says something like, you take the love with you. I believe that, because you can feel it. Heaven is real. God's love for us is real. I knew that before, but now it's different. It's home. And it makes the sadness bearable.

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