Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations …

For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past …

We spend our years as a tale that is told …

So, establish the work of our hands—

O establish the work of our hands.

Excerpts of Psalm 90 adapted from the King James Version

HANDS

It always comes on a slant

a glint of light

a tilt of my head

a twist, turn or torque of my hand—

but in a flash it is my father’s hand,

the way he tilted it or let it droop.

His hand.

A sweet warmth connects us across decades

bathed by this tender memory:

His hand gripping,

twisting as he torqued a baseball,

teaching me how to throw a curve,

or thread a fast ball in just above the knees.

His hands taught me arithmetic—

add, subtract, multiply and divide—

with a stub of pencil.

And patience.

I don’t recall his voice saying, “I love you.”

His hands said it.

He often asked me to stop by the garage,

especially after a big game the night before.

He’d crawl out from under a car,

wipe his greasy hands, light a cigarette.

“Come over here,” he’d say,

as he put his hand on my shoulder and introduce me as his son.

Maybe the only time he’d touch me.

Then he’d describe my playing ball the night before.

I’d get real quiet and red as he’d go on,

hand on my shoulder, feeling pride, swelling pride

in my playing the game he loved.

His hands were always stained—

two yellow fingers from too many cigs.

His nails were always black—too

much grease to wash away.

His hands were always kind, never cruel,

even when my mother insisted I had been so bad

I needed a good beating with the belt.

He’d call me into another room, slip out his belt,

pull the ends together, hold in both hands, push it into a loop

and snap it together to make a deafening crack.

I’d scream!

He’d yell, beat the bed, crack the belt, scare the hell out of me!

I’d cry and he’d tell me to respect my mother.

He’d leave me alone. Return to her.

I don’t think he ever hit me once.

Lucky me.

Then, his hands trembled when he aged.

Mine now tremble sometimes, too.

Once we went together to visit mother’s grave.

He suddenly said,

“All the grave stones on this side of the cemetery are flat,

on the other side, they are large monuments.

Your Mom and I are on the side where everyone is

equal.”

It happens seldom,

always on the slant.

We reconnect.

His hand

becomes my hand.

(Photo: Three Generations of Hands, a photo from Susan Stitt, used with permission)

(Originally published at www.ReadTheSpirit.com, an on line magazine covering religion, spirituality, values and interfaith and cross-cultural issues.)