Growing up there was nothing my dad could not fix. A mechanical engineer by trade, I watched this man use his hands to create, to dig, to measure, to cut, twist, glue and most importantly provide the security to his family that if something ever fell apart, he would be there to put it back together. Dad came through more times then I can count. His garage full of tools and the big long workbench where he used his hands to carefully put our lives back together was a whole other universe to me. Dad was great with his hands. He still is. I spent many moments in life feeling so indebted to him, knowing that he had done something for me I just didn’t have the skills to do myself. I would have been so lost without him. Even though I’m now over 40, just this week he fixed my faucet that haid been rattling for months. Another mystery solved by the man with the “fix it” hands. Another debt I cannot pay.
You see I fell far from the “fix it” tree. I have never been able to figure out how things go together. What came as second nature to him has been a huge life mystery to me. When a toy or bike or piece of furniture fell out of the box with its many parts, screws, and instructions, I wanted to run the other way. Thankfully dad was there to put it together. I always wished I had his talent. There were times I really wanted to make him proud by pulling off some great feat of engineering genius by fixing something broken before he got home from work; but that never happened. It just got referred to him.
A few weeks ago dad got real sick. He had a large abscess on his neck that required a major surgery. He left the hospital with a good size wound that needed and still needs dressing changes daily. For these past few weeks I have helped him. What an honor to take care of the man who has always taken care of me, even in this small way. Being a hospice nurse, and having dealt with many wounds, a simple dressing change is not a big deal. As he sits in front of me with his head turned slightly down I cleanse his wound and pack it and tape it up. Today I noticed my hands as I tried to delicately scrub without hurting him. They look like his in shape and size. They look old. Somewhere, somehow, they changed from little boy hands, carrying a broken toy to dad to fix, to adult hands. They are still clumsy with a screwdriver but they are good at taking care of him. And others. I was keenly aware today of the different talents the good Lord gives each one of us and how that really makes us need each other.
I was also happy, not that dad had a wound that needed tending to, but that I finally got to help, in just a very small way, the man that has always taken care of me.
With my hands.
I enjoyed this blog. For some strange reason I often think of hands. I grew up “helping” my father with carpentry projects and eventually became convinced that I was no good at all in that area. Flash forward to about age 40. I decided to make floor-to-ceiling bookcases and eventually did so. A few years later we got a house, and I now do cabinetry and the like. I suppose it’s like everything else in life. You never really know what you can accomplish until you just give it a shot and see what happens.
Thank you. Perhaps there is hope for me yet in the handyman arena.