My favourite time of the day is when grubby, rough hands hold their smallest, softest, copy. Little hands excitedly intertwined with daddy’s.
Farming hands mean many things. They are rough from hard labour and dirty from determination. They must be gentle enough to help livestock but strong enough to hold ones family close. Husband, I am thankful that your hands match your heart; resilient against hard times, gentle and loving and strong and brave when the storms come our way.
You are reliable and loyal, your focus never changes. The most hardworking man I have ever encountered, you get things done and done well. I’m grateful that your focus, in the end, centers on us. You put bread on the table with determination. When others back down, you show up. Rain, hail or shine, you’re there. Showing what you’re made of in the most gentle and humble way. Never faltering.
Oh how I hope our son takes after you. How he gazes into your eyes as if the stars twinkle from within them.
You are the fun in our household. The chief tickler, leader of adventures and the champion of bed time stories and cuddles. The anchor in a chaotic whirlwind of parenthood.
You lead by Christ’s example. Gentle, forgiving and resilient as you silently and selflessly bear burdens that were never yours to carry.
In the years that have passed you have never changed. Even in this new season of life you assign yourself to the hard graft. It is unequivocally yours and words can never repay our thankfulness.
Those hands that now hold little fingers, once held only mine before. I’m forever thankful that in between the chaos, they still do.