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Long Sunday sermons provided six-year-old me with plenty of time to memorize every detail of my dad’s hands. I do not recall sermon points, but I can still vividly see and feel his rough and calloused hands holding mine. His fingers were pure muscle, and I was amazed to find his thumb wider than several of my fingers. Calluses and cuts changed the weekly character of his hands, silent witnesses of the hard physical labor from the previous week. Whether rain or sunshine, snow or heat, in sickness and in health, my dad used every ounce of his physical strength to provide for our needs.
His hands represented security. They represented provision. And they were early object lessons of servant leadership. His entire life seemed to be lived for my mom and us kids—six in all. At the core of his identity was usefulness, particularly with his hands, in building homes to meet people’s needs and dreams, and through that putting food on our table, keeping a roof over our heads, and allowing for the occasional travel adventure.
Decades later, he is still working hard. But the pace has slowed. Aging and years of work have taken a toll on his body. Several years ago, he fell through a roof and had a long recovery process. Then came a major heart surgery. Today he is in the midst of cancer treatments. “I can hardly do things,” he admits, frustrated and feeling helpless. He doesn’t see that the kind of strength he offers, and that our families need, has changed. We no longer need him to provide physically for us. We have our own homes and callings. The type of strength that his life offers is different now, and perhaps even more formative.
Last week, the family gathered; he thumbed through his Bible and shared a passage that God had brought to mind that morning on the radiation table. It is one thing to read James 1:2–4 with our kids and another to witness together the testing, endurance, and maturity of faith happening in real time. God is allowing us to see a different strength and provision through fatherhood in this season, and the blessings extend to our own children.
When I was little, seeing my dad’s strength gave me comfort. But now, seeing Christ’s strength displayed in his present weakness gives me immeasurably more comfort. Last week, after a dinner with my parents, I walked into the living room to find Dad lying on our couch and under a blanket with our youngest daughter sitting close by. Here, I witness strength—not of his own, but the perfect strength of Christ, as my dad looks to Him through all the discomfort, fear, and experience of weakness.
The greatest gift that we can give our children transcends the strength of our own hands, however mighty they may be. Instead, it’s letting our lives reflect the strength of another—the One whose hands were pierced and bloodied so that ours might be sustained until they are finally lifted in worship and joy before the Lamb.