My Father’s Hands

For Bruce. Thank you.

See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands (Isaiah 49:16).

I was dreaming, but I could feel my breath. Slow and shallow, full of fear.

I stood before a weather-beaten house. Its rough-hewn wooden door was colorless from years of storm and sun. There was no knob. No place for a knob, either.

Open the door.

Jesus stood beside me, like a friend who goes with you to help you be brave.

But it has no knob. And I’m afraid.

He placed His hand on the door and it swung wide. Entering first, He reached out his hand toward me. I gripped it and followed. 

To our left in a small room, a man cradled a baby. His eyes shone with love and tenderness. As he rocked, he sang the sweetest song I’d ever heard. Tears stung my eyes as the melody wrapped its arms around me.

With a start, I understood somehow that the man represented God and the baby was me.

I have no memory of my biological father, no retold stories of his love for me, of him singing over me, holding me. Like a void in my heart and mind, it gapes, threatening to swallow me if I look too close for too long.

I stood mesmerized for an instant until I looked at his hands.

They were hands that had hurt me. The hands of a stepfather who in real life had caused me wounds so deep I spent decades healing. 

I hate those hands.

I ran with all my might from that house, from sleep to awake, to find real tears soaking my face.

I talked with my spiritual director about this troubling dream. Why would Jesus take me into that house? A house symbolizing my father wound? A place where I would see those hands again?

As we prayed and pored over Scripture together, I began to understand.

For those who have been wounded by their earthly father’s hands, trusting God as Father is terrifying. #healing #hope #FathersDay Click To Tweet

Will He abuse me, too? Will He hurt me? Can I trust Him?

I had been avoiding this weather-beaten house for too long, afraid to enter in and look closely at my perception of my heavenly Father, the one who sings over his children with songs of joy (see Zephaniah 3:17). I had superimposed the hands of the abuser in my life onto the hands of my Father God.

I prayed God would replace this image with truth, with a picture of Himself. Of His hands.

Truth after truth strengthened my heart and gave me courage. 

His hands bring us out of bondage. (Exodus 13:9)

His hands defend the helpless. (Psalm 10:12).

His hands establish us and give us a new, good place to dwell. (Exodus 15:17)

His hands shape us with purpose and honor. (Isaiah 64:8)

His hands put words in our mouths that change the world. (Jeremiah 1:9)

His hands hold ours so we won’t fall. (Psalm 37:23-24)

His hands bless our children. (Matthew 19:13-15)

His hands heal our diseases. (Mark 5:23)

His hands give sight to the blind. (Mark 8:23)

His hands serve us and show us how to serve others. (John 13)

A few days later, I received a surprise visitor.

A father figure from my college days appeared at my door. He and his wife discipled me, counseled my husband and me during our engagement, and on our wedding day, he officiated as we said our vows.

I trust him. 

Other than my late father-in-love, He is the only father figure I have ever allowed into my heart.

Again, my face was wet with tears, but this time with joy and wonder at what my heavenly Father was doing.

As we sat together over brunch, my husband and I poured out our hearts about life just like old times. I shared the grief I was wrestling with as our oldest son left the nest and took flight. While I spoke, my dear father-friend took my hand.

When I looked at our clasped hands there on the table, my heart almost stopped.

See these hands. They love you. You are safe.

I love you. You are safe. I’ve got you.

My heavenly Father’s words washed over me with healing even as this precious father figure’s hand held mine.

No one knew what had transpired between me and Lord. I had told no one except my spiritual director about the dream and ensuing struggle in my heart.

This gift, this image of a father’s hand holding mine, was exquisitely my own. From my Father’s heart to mine. My Father’s hands.

Through gushing tears, I urged my husband to grab the camera and capture the image for me. This is the picture featured in today’s post. 

My Father God makes many promises, and He keeps every one. One particular promise is that He will restore everything that was taken (see Zephaniah 3:20). Even images of a loving father’s hand holding mine. Oh, how I have longed for that through the years!

Are you wounded this Father’s Day? Does the thought of a father make you cringe and want to hide? Does the word father bring images of hands that hurt you?

Take this picture and make it yours today. Ask God to show you His heart and His hands.

When you see them, you will find your name engraved right on the palms. 

That’s how much you matter to Him.

Lord, heal my heart this Father’s Day. Show me Your heart and hands. Amen.

@audreycfrank