My Daddy’s Hands

Praying old hands
This week has been a week of sorrow as we made final arrangements for my father, Don Brothers. Though we will grieve for a long while, the advice of several of my family members rings in my ears, “Remember the good things.”

Slogging through the stages of grief, my mind keeps returning to an image. We were told that he was found in his apartment, on his knees, with his hands folded one on top of the other on the floor with his face pressed against them.  This was his praying position. My daddy left this world praying.


That sounds right.

I take great comfort in the thought that he bent down, closed his eyes in prayer. The next sound he heard was music and the brush of angel wings. When he opened his eyes, the very One he was praying to stood before him with a smile and open arms.

My Daddy’s hands, folded in prayer. His last legacy, his last sermon, his last instruction to us, pray.

Indulge me as I cope the best way I know how. I write.

Daddy’s Hands

By LaDonna Cole

They cradled to the “Tis so sweet” tune.

They penned a poem, an angel’s croon.

They held high the Bible’s truths,

My Daddy’s hands, my Daddy’s hands.

Tying knots in fishing line,

Holding my bike as he ran behind,

Pointing, showing, enfolding mine.

My Daddy’s hands, my Daddy’s hands.

Reaching out to touch my face,

Guiding me to find my place,

Snagging on my bridal lace,

My Daddy’s hands, my Daddy’s hands.

Spread wide to gather, hug, and hold,

Whitened knuckles on wheel chair’s cold,

Trembling where they once were bold,

My Daddy’s hands, my Daddy’s hands.

Turning through crisp Bible pages,

Folded in prayer to the God of the Ages,

A legacy of faith as eternity engages,

My Daddy’s hands, my Daddy’s hands.