My Fathers hands...

       I want you to know that you were beside me today, Dad. Right there beside me with your hands in the bike.

     Today was bike day at an after school program where I work, called, Husky club.  And as the cast of wild things rode round the blacktop, I noticed that one of the older boys was sitting with his head hung. His bike was on the ground. I walked over. 
     "What up buddy?", I asked him.
     He looked at his bike and then at me. Pointed. The chain had come off. It was hanging loose on one side and stuck on the other. 
     "Yeah," I said, tugging on it. "It's stuck pretty good." Then I tugged it again. 

      "Don't bother," He said as he kicked the tire in frustration, "I've been messin' with it for 10 minutes. It's useless."

      I looked down at the two freshly polished fingers that I used to tug on the chain and were covered in black bike oil. And that was when I suddenly saw your hands Dad, and in my mind I was watching a movie of you fixing our bikes chains. I'd seen you do it so many times. But I'd never done it myself. .   
     "You know," I told the boy with the bike, "I have two sisters and a brother and I saw my Dad fix this kind of stuff a lot'," I knelt down beside him, "Is it okay if I try?"
     The boy nodded yes, resigned, but looked at me like I was crazy. I asked him to run inside and get me a chair from the classroom, and then sitting, I angled the bike against my leg the way you always did, Dad, then I began to move the pedal back and forth and back and forth and guided the greasy chain links back onto the teeth. I had to tug hard on it hard a couple of times, but I got it on. I actually fixed it.
     When I stood up I held my hands in front of me. They were covered with oily black bike chain goop. So much for my fresh nails I thought. 
     But the smile on the boy's face as he jumped on his bike made my hands look beautiful. "Thanks, Miss Pam!" he said as he took off across the blacktop.
      Thank you, Dad, I thought smiling as I walked inside to wash up. I had never put a chain back on a bike until today. But today my hands became yours. Efficient, dirty, and working in love.
      All those years I watched you, I had been learning something that I didn't even know I'd learned. So thanks for always fixing our stuff, Dad. And know that I really loved having you at work with me today.
     There's nothing like a Father's hands
      

     Post Script...

     After I wrote this story, I printed it out along with this photo I took. The hands in the picture are actually Paul's and Jude's, but I laminated everything and made a card for my Dad for Father's day. I had called him after I'd fixed the bike, and told him the story, but I thought he might like to have a copy of the story I wrote about it. He did.

     The next time I saw him, the card was sitting on a table by his front door. His wife told me that he'd showed it to everyone that came through their door for months after he had received the card. And it was still right there ready to be read again if anyone asked about it. 

     I had no idea when I sent it what it would mean to him, but I wanted him to know how much I appreciated him as my Dad, and I wanted him to know that I had paid attention. 

     At his funeral, I read the story out loud for the first time to an audience. I told them how much the card I sent Dad meant to him and spoke with tears in my eyes to those listening . "Please tell the people you love that you love them. Remind them of the things they did that formed you. Tell them what you learned from them because all those things matter. They matter on earth, and in Heaven. And when they're gone, it'll be too late, 

     When I finished, I looked into the audience and saw that I wasn't the only one who had tears in my eyes. So Thanks again, Dad. Thanks for always fixing our bikes.