But more importantly - those hands built me. They put pigtails in my hair and learned how to braid. They fixed my scrapes and my first car. Those hands squeezed mine at every 'amen' during dinner grace. Those hands I now hold wrapped around my own babies just minutes after they were born, and most recently those hands made shadow puppets on the ceiling for my giggling children.
I hold those hands as we make it through yet another night. I sob and those hands still wipe away my tears though I'm now an adult. I squeeze those hands with dreams of them dancing with my daughter at her wedding, knowing I have no control over such a thing. My own hands never felt so weak.
Ironically, years ago his hands even helped build the very hospital room he currently resides in. I am now being asked to trust someone else to use their own hands to fix him. Can a surgeon's hands even fix my father? No one knows for sure. But I do know for sure that the hands that held mine as I learned to walk - the hands that let go of my bicycle for the first time as I learned to ride it - the hands that checked my oil before I moved away to college - the hands that let go of mine so I could learn to fly on my own - those hands are now in mine, and I am so grateful for the strength he has given me to let them go - and know that no matter the outcome, I am okay - and thankful - and blessed for all they have done for me.