I'm glad God gave you hands, Pa.
     else how would you have held me
when I was just a tot
     when you sat with me in rocking chair
and made squeaky noises on your pipe
     to make me giggle?

Or how would you have held me
     close to table
to sneak the can of Pet milk to my lips
     when someone wasn't looking
to gently reprove you.
     "Look at that big belly she's getting!"
But that bellyful of cream felt all right to me!

And who would ever know
     what delights those hands would bring back next
from fields or woods?
     The first arbutus -- or lady slippers --
for four little girls' eyes to feast upon
     when we were still too small
to venture far from home

The first branch of sweet wild strawberries
     from "behind the place"
to show us that the pickings were ripe
     so we could grab assorted containers
to be filled with God's abundance
     to be mashed with sugar
and spread on bread
     and happy faces.

Those hands lifted me high
     when you carried me from the hospital
when I had cut my foot,
     and they handed four little girls ice cream cones
through the window of an old Doge
     on a hot day.

When lightning flashed and thunder cracked,
     those hands swooped me to your shoulder
so through the window I could see the pounding rain
     while your voice gently said, "Isn't that beautiful?"
     And to this day, I always see the beauty
in a powerful storm.

I saw those hands gently cradling huckleberries,
     and strongly grabbing plum trees
to shake the plums to the groun,
     and cutting down a Christmas tree.
Sometimes playing fiddle
     or chopping wood
or simply playing "spider" on a laughing baby's knee.

I also saw those hands folded in prayer
     when you were on your knees
in front of our little altar
each morning
     before you put one bit of food
into your mouth.

I don't forget those hands
     Nor does God.

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