My Dad's Hands

My father was born with a deformity in his hands. This deformity manifests itself as exceptionally short fingers on both hands (ending somewhere in between where most people's first and second knuckles would be) with the exceptions of his ring fingers, which are of normal length. To be completely honest, I'm not sure what the name of this irregularity would be, or if it even has one. Although I don't know for sure, I can't imagine it was very easy growing up with hands so different from what would be considered normal. I didn't get my first armpit hair until I was 16, and people reminded me, nearly everyday, that as a senior in high school I looked like a 9 year old. I can only imagine the remarks that were made about my dad's hands. Understanding how insensitive children (and some adults) can be, I don't think I'd be interested in a historical account of the taunts referencing his hands.

Even as a small child I knew that his hands were different. I can remember with near perfect recollection sitting on his lap, carefully examining his hands, folding them over, intently observing every feature on both the palm and back of his hand. I repeated this inspection on numerous occasions, curiously trying to uncover the mystery as to why his hands were so different from other hands I'd seen. I recall one instance when I asked him why his hands were they way they were. His explanation failed to satiate my curiosity, "I was just born that way," he said. However unsatisfactory his response was to a 5 or 6 year old, I must have accepted it because I can't remember ever letting his irregular hands bother me, and I stopped wondering why they were different.

Someone completely unfamiliar with my father would likely think that this deformity would impair his ability to perform tasks in the same way that a person with normal hands could. Those who know him realize how impaired the rest of us are. By trade my father is an auto-mechanic. Other than a few brief stints, this has been his profession since he was a young man. An early boss of his told him that he was bound for failure and should seek another line of work. Needless to say, they parted ways. I have no idea what became of that boss, and I'm sure no one really cares. Thankfully, my father ignored his advice and persisted in his career choice. With his unique pair of hands he accomplished what most mechanics could only aspire to achieve. He became a Master Technician in German made vehicles (e.g., Volkswagen, Porsche, Audi) and Ford vehicles. For those who are unfamiliar with that term, it requires a great deal of work, passing numerous written exams with near perfect scores, and who knows what other certification requirements. He was selected as one of 10 of the best German auto technicians in the nation, and won a trip to Germany. He has owned and operated two  businesses, was a general manager of a dealership, and held many other management positions. When our family moved from Coos Bay, Oregon to Utah, his former boss begged him to come back, and offered an impressive raise to persuade him. Growing up, the book cases in our house were occupied with a number of awards and trophies standing as a testimony for his knowledge and excellence in auto mechanics.  

I could go on and on recounting an endless supply of stories where my father had fixed my cars, the cars of other family members, friends, and neighbors. I hold very dear the memories of helping my dad rebuild the engine of a truck that was to be my graduation present. I wasn't much help, but I recall spending hours at a time in our garage, watching him completely disassemble that engine and, without a second thought, position every piece back in its place, not even questioning the placement of a single bolt. I couldn't fathom how a person could possibly know which, out of HUNDREDS of bolts should go where without referencing some sort of manual. I still can't.

I watched his hands lay concrete, build shops, finish basements, fix and build computers, run wire, and lay the electrical groundwork in a house, just to name a few. The list, however, could go on for pages. I knew that if anything of mine ever broke, be it a toy, a radio, a set of headphones, I could take it to my dad and it would be fixed. As an adult, I recall having trouble with a piece of hardware. No matter what I did, I couldn't fix it. I took it apart and examined every piece. Regardless of my attempts, they all ended in failure. Finally, I resigned to take it to my dad. He held it in his hand, and it worked. Surprised, I asked him what he did. He replied with a grin, "I didn't do anything. I guess everything I touch just gets fixed." It's likely that the item had already, either seen, or heard tell of those hands. Because his hands were so identifiable, the object must have known right away that no amount of resistance could have prevented the inevitable, and its life would go on as a functioning member of society. Once it made that connection, it worked from that moment forward.

My father is a devout member of the LDS faith. As a priesthood bearer, he often blessed his children in times of sickness or hardship. My younger brother was born with Blount's disease, and therefore had severely bowed legs as a child. His condition required regular visits to Shriner's Hospital for treatment. At one point, the doctors told my parents that corrective surgery would be required, that his legs would need to be broken and reset correctly. Before they would go through with the surgery, my father, with his hands, blessed my brother that his legs would heal and that he would not require this procedure. During their next visit, the doctors were astonished. His legs had begun to straighten on their own. Over the years, his legs completely straightened out, and he never needed surgery. On another occasion, my family was on a camping trip in Oregon. It was raining furiously one night, and my brother and I laid in our tent hoping the storm would soon subside. I quickly noticed that my throat began to swell. As a boy, I had severe asthma attacks from time to time. On this occasion, I could scarcely breathe and feared the worst. This fear brought me to tears, and to the door of my parents tent. Sopping wet, crying, and barely able to breath, I entered their tent. My father laid his hands on my head and asked God that I would be comforted and that my ability to breathe with ease would return. Within minutes I was calm and appreciating every breath that entered my small body. Whether you subscribe to the believe that there is a God who gives power to man or not, understand that these blessings brought me comfort and healing in times of need.

With his deformed hands my father provided a roof over the heads of his eight children and wife of 36 years. I never went hungry, and always felt cared for. I never doubted the protection that his hands offered, and always felt safe. As a missionary in Spain, whenever I was suffering hardship, I would read the hand written letter my father had given me days before I imparted on that journey. I cherished his advice and sought comfort in his words. There are few men that have lived on this earth who I admire more.

Today my father celebrates his 59th birthday. I can only hope and pray that my hands will tell such an honorable story when they reach that age.

Happy birthday dad!