These old hands

I looked down at my hands today at work wondering why they just won't do what I want them to do anymore. They just seem to get clumsier by the day. When I think back over all they've touched and all they've done, I'm sure they hold a life map in them somewhere. They're beginning to weaken of late. I can tell when I try to do some of the things that had been so easy and natural for so many years. The bottles don't open as easy anymore, the keys get fumbled, and throwing a curveball is almost a mystery now. The fingers are all beginning to grow in separate directions and like most of my body...they hurt most of the time. Swollen knuckles and calloused palms bear silent witness to a lifetime of joy, work, play and more than a little sorrow.

As I looked at them it occurred to me, if they could talk what a story they could tell. I had been thinking since Sunday about some of these things I'm about to say. I guess my ole hands have just prompted me to begin. See, Sunday morning as I was teaching Sunday School, I mentioned something I hadn't really thought about in many years....I decided a long time ago that no one would ever see me cry again. Tilena had never heard me say that and she said so that afternoon as we were driving over to a movie together. Then she said "You know, come to think of it, I don't think I have ever seen you cry". And I replied "I know for a fact you've never seen me cry". "I have always made that a point in life". I was surprised that she didn't know, nor had I ever told her why. I guess it's bit embarrassing, but as we get older, things just don't embarrass us as much anymore. Anyway...the whole thing started me thinking about how little we really know about each other, even the people we love most in this world.

So, as I considered these things, I also began to think about it in terms of my children and what I've experienced as opposed to what they've known. In particular what they really know (or think they know) about their Mom and Dad. Of course Tilena, Christy, Ryan, and Nick know me better than anyone ever has....but then I thought, how much more do they not know? I decided it may be best to just start out and talk about why and how that happened to me. All in all it was one of the most profound life affecting processes I've ever encountered...probably following only accepting Christ's Salvation and marrying Tilena. Here goes....

Middle School, Fall of 1973. I was by all accounts very unpopular in school. I was right in the middle of a growth spurt and terribly clumsy. Having creamy white skin, crooked yellow teeth and no friends and certainly no clothes of any style didn't help at all. I had grown up on a farm with little social interaction zero social skills and no one who could teach me. I wore work clothes to school and they were stained with tomato vine the same as my hands and arms. There was a particular bully who was a couple years older than me that tormented me and made my life miserable. My stomach ached all the time with dread at the thought of going to school. I was beat up (never seriously) regularly and teased constantly. This guy just chose me as his sport and had his play with me daily. Worse than the physical bruising, was the name calling and humiliation of it all. Everyone in school knew who the "albino kid with yellow vampire teeth and green hands" was. I can still hear that guy screaming those things at me today. Those sort of things are deeply embarrassing to a 12-13 year old boy and I would have died before telling anyone or asking for help. Who do you tell anyway? The whole school and a couple of teachers knew it already and no help was offered. My Dad never went to the school for any reason good or bad the whole 12 years I was there. Mom would have made a scene which would have made it even worse on me. I don't remember my Dad even being there at my graduation....it says something that I don't remember even if he was there....but I don't think he was. Anyway I would often times just sit in desperation crying in the locker room or outside by myself during lunch. I didn't have anything to eat anyway because the guy also took my lunch money every day. When the other kids saw me the either teased me more or avoided me altogether. Nobody wants to be associated with the "loser". Anyway, the worse it got, the worse it got...when the other kids got the chance, they would get in on the act too. It was a year I don't like to remember much and it seemed like it would never end. I think it was during this time I began to develop more and more as a...well, not exactly a loner, but I seemed to have more fun by myself than I did with anyone else. I certainly was a lot more comfortable alone. Maybe the best way to describe it was "self sufficient". Then one day on the last day of school I was crossing the parking lot headed for the bus when "Jerry" and his buddies cornered me. All the kids gathered around laughing and enjoying the show. I got a dozen strawberries and a nosebleed from the pavement and a concussion where I hit a concrete parking bumper with my head. That night, in the emergency room, Doctor Dyal said..."boy, you're just a little too much like your mama". Today, I'm not sure if he was talking about being hardheaded or something else, but a 13 year old boy took it like he was calling me a sissy. I cried again just to prove him right, but that night at home in my room I promised myself Nobody would ever see me cry again.

When I returned to school that Fall, Jerry was gone "sent to a Technical School" and I was gradually growing into an athletic body. I would eventually become fairly popular and an accomplished high school athlete (funny how a little athletic prowess can do that), but I never forgot my lessons in humility and I never forgot my promise. The shame and humiliation drove me all my young adult life. I lifted weights, accomplished a number of on hands self defense arts and became tough as leather. No one is better at hiding emotions than me. I see some of the other kids from time to time since we've grown up, and you know something...not a single one of them has ever mentioned any of it. I've suffered a lot more painful injuries since then, both emotional and physical. My hands show a lot of it, but my emotions never showed any of it. Through it all though, I've kept my promise except for one solitary time. Right after my Dad died, I was sitting out in the barn alone among all his things thinking about him the day of the funeral when my two boys walked in the door. I cried right then before I could even blink. It wasn't because I missed him so much, although I did, but It hit me so fast that I never had with him what my children have with me...a true bond and open love. And it was too late then to ever have it. I got a hold of myself pretty quick, and they've never seen me like that again. But they are the only ones to see me cry since that day in June of 1974.

I'll cry again one day I'm sure. I'm too heavily invested in my family not to. Nor does that vow seem as important today as it has most of my life. But for now, I just still hold most things close. I don't mind saying whats on my heart or mind, I'm even inclined to show love...just still can't quite show the hurt yet. I've lived long enough to see scores settled and debts paid. I know it all evens out. Jerry regreted many times over even knowing me, let alone hurting me. The God I serve has a way of handling those things...they are his to settle. I think that year of humble pie was the driving force behind my chosen profession....just want to see unfair things made right. Jerry spent more time in jail than out over the years and I just can't imagine today, why I was so afraid of him then. He died a couple of years back, just a little wisp of a man broken by disease and chemical addiction. Although I did allow myself a moment of pleasure on one of the many trips I made escorting him to jail; for the most part I just had sympathy for him. He was just a brief sad, but important, chapter in my life.

So here I am today still looking at these hands while more and more memories come to mind. They've held Christy down in the mud and fingerprinted corpses at autopsy. They've held my newborn boys and my dying parents. Hugged Emma Grace and Joelene, But neither one often enough. They've loved Tilena and had their bones broken fighting with outlaws. Thrown rocks, bottles baseballs, footballs and snowballs. Held snakes, lizards, possums, coons and severed body parts. They picked a scared thirteen year old boy up off the pavement and knocked the guy down that did it fifteen years later. Then did it again out of sinful pleasure. They've held a bible and taught recruits self defense. They've written term papers, arrest affidavits and activity reports. They've pulled weeds and planted flowers, hit grown men and held frightened children. Spanked butts and wiped noses. I've squeezed them together in anguish while my kids made bad decisions...but held them from falling all the while. One hand wears my Dad's wedding band and the other hand my own. Both have spent more and more time folded in prayer as the years have drifted by. Lot of history in these hands...but they ain't talking. I think that's about all I've got to say about that.

It'll be sundown soon and I've got an appointment on the patio.

If your Dad is still alive, go hold his hands.

Don & Co.


Palm trees and Sand...........................