When I think of my Father, I think of his hands.

How even to this day, they’re bigger than mine

Hands that are used to hard work

Worn and calloused

Hands that have tossed a football to me in the driveway

Drawn with me at the dinner table

And held my hand to cross the street


When I think of my Father, I think of his aging body

The betrayal he must feel, as it slowly wears down

A body that has withstood pain and brokenness

Born far too many bruises

The weight of responsibility that has always rested heavy on his shoulders

And heavier in his mind


When I think of my Father

I’m reminded of all the things he did for us growing up

I think of how well he loves my Mama

His voice on the other end of the phone

The way his eyes shone holding my daughter for the first time


When I think of my Father

I am thankful…

That I do not yet have to live in a world without him

One thought on “My Father

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