Shaking Hands

SHAKING HANDS



As a young man of fourteen, I put out my hand to shake the hand of Pastor Bill. His hands were soft and pudgy, pink with perfect nails. They were a far cry from my father’s hands, calloused and scarred, and capable of crushing my hand. A pastor’s hand does a different kind of work. It turns the pages of bibles and other books. It holds babies and the hands of the elderly. My father’s hands had fashioned B-17’s, held dynamite sticks in hard rock coalmines, and lifted huge rocks to make a house for his bride. But then I realized they both had good hands, willing to do God’s will. They are both gone now, but as I look back, I am proud I shook their hands.