Several years ago our son had just bought a new gas-powered trimmer. Being longer and of a different shape than his old one, he was having some difficulty in cutting a straight line. I stepped behind him and put my arms around him. Placing my hands on his, I directed his movements until he got the hang of the work.
Around the same time, a similar event occurred. Barrett had a lawn mower blade clamped in the vise and was attempting to sharpen it with a file. Having never done that before, his strokes were uneven and choppy and were doing more harm than good. I placed my hands on his and guided the file until he was able to stroke the blade smoothly on his own.
On hearing my reports of these incidents, my wife Mary was touched by how I had helped Barrett–with my hands on his–and suggested that I write about them. My thoughts, however, were to be retrospective, describing what Barrett might feel after my death. How would he recall my attempts to provide instruction in the little opportunities that arise in every parent/child relationship? How would my attempts to teach him endure the test of time?
In refelcting upon them, what lingers so strongly in my memory is the realization that such special moments are incredibly transitory. We come and go, too often failing to connect with each other in such teachable and memorable situations. Like a mist, childhood soon evaporates before our very eyes, taking with it those remarkable opportunities that far too often are viewed as intrusions.
Nevertheless, our goal as parents should be to train our children in such a way that when the real crisis points in their lives arise, they might be able to say, “My father’s hands (or my mother’s hands) still show me what to do.”
THOSE HANDS
I felt those hands on mine today
As I tried to find a way
To do a job I knew not how to do.
They guided me with skill so rare
I knew he must have been right there
To lead me through the job he used to do.
When I was young, he’d oft come near,
With hands on mine, a gentle steer,
To trace for me the steps I’d have to do.
And when I sought the job to speed,
With kind restraint those hands would lead
To better work than I was wont to do.
Though now by death from this life freed,
He left me what he knew I’d need:
My father’s hands still show me what to do.
Copyright 1999 James McAlister
Recent Comments