My Father’s Hands

By Don Porterfield

It was a warm, sunny November afternoon. I was in my second year at Central Christian College of Kansas. I was just returning from a lab exercise at a campus across town when the resident assistant informed me that the dean of students wanted to see me in his office immediately.

Being summoned to the dean’s office usually meant you had committed an infraction and would face disciplinary action. I couldn’t think of anything I had done recently (at least not anything that anyone knew about), but my resident assistant had said “right away.”

Mr. Scott offered me a seat in his office and closed the door. No amount of preplanning could have prepared me for what I was about to hear. “Your father has been seriously injured in an accident,” he began.

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“It was almost unreal, yet this was not a bad dream that would be over the moment I woke up.”

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As he continued with further details, I felt as if I had been called to observe someone else hearing bad news. It was almost unreal, yet this was not a bad dream that would be over the moment I woke up. He invited me to use his phone to call home for updated information.

The following day I flew home. Over the next several days we waited and prayed for an answer as Dad lay in a coma. The flood of deeply concerned friends and relatives who passed through the waiting room every day was supportive, but the constant waiting began to take its toll.

Could this really be happening? Was that really my dad lying there in a coma, connected to all those machines? When was I going to wake up and find that this was all just a bad dream?

Early one Sunday morning, 12 days after the accident, it was over. There were forms to fill out to let everyone know that Dad had passed away. Then came the funeral and eventually the trip back to school to finish the semester.

During the week of the funeral, I experienced an unusual sense of calm. At least the waiting was over. As the first few days passed, I began to feel that my relationship with the Lord was strengthening and that I might even be able to escape the terrible grief those suffering the loss of a loved one go through.

Questioning and Grieving

Then on a Sunday evening after church, almost as with the flip of a switch, the shock I was experiencing was gone. This was indeed not a dream. I suddenly felt all alone. I wandered around campus like a wounded animal.

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“Much of my grief and sadness was expressed in private.”

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Many thoughts and questions came as I began the grieving process. As the oldest son, how was I going to be the “man” of the family, since I was only 19? Who was going to finish the job of teaching me to be a man? Until that time, I had rested in the fact that I was almost grown up. But I also knew that if anything happened, Dad was just a phone call away and would take care of things. How was I ever going to afford to finish school?

Much of my grief and sadness was expressed in private. I felt I had to be strong to hold the family together. How could I do that if they knew I was falling apart?

Guilt feelings arose. If I really had a “proper” relationship with the Lord, I should be able to trust Him for these things — to simply allow Him to take away all the pain. I learned years later that these feelings are OK.

Memories and Lasting Lessons

Most of the memories I have of my dad are happy ones. Some of my fondest memories are those of family vacations. Dad loved to travel and explore. I was able to see and experience many exciting places across the country.

When I was a little older, Dad and I spent hours in the darkroom as he taught me about photography. Many of our family vacations centered around taking pictures. Our vacations would sometimes span several states and cover many miles. As we traveled along and the miles rolled by, and as I grew tired of fighting with my younger brother and sister, I would lie down on the back seat and go to sleep. I had always felt a sense of security that as long as Dad was behind the wheel, I was completely safe.

There are many other things Dad taught me as I was growing up. Some of those lessons were hard to learn. As a child, I sometimes thought he was too strict. I have now come to realize that he disciplined me because he loved me and wanted me to grow up learning to be obedient. As I learned to respect and obey my dad as a child, I would later learn to respect, love, and obey the Lord as a man.

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“I have discovered that God is big enough that He can be what is missing in my life.”

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Dad’s love for God and his dedication to the church were instilled in me at a young age. Dad taught me by example how to serve the Lord in the church and in our home.

One lesson was about budgeting. When I first started to receive an allowance, he gave me several small plastic boxes to “file” my money in. There was money for spending, school supplies, Cub Scout dues, a little for savings, and, most importantly, a box for my tithe.

Dad explained to me how everything we had was given to us by God, and this was what we were giving back to Him. As I was growing up, he modeled for me what it was to be a man of God.

For the first few years after my father’s death, I often felt I had been cheated, that I was missing out on the father-son relationship, which occurs when a son first becomes a man. I have my father’s memories and the great heritage he has passed on to me, but I have discovered something far greater. I have discovered that God is big enough that He can be what is missing in my life.

I recently heard a song by Glad called “My Father’s Hands.” This song talks about how a child’s father’s hands could fix most of what was broken in his life. But there came a time when he could no longer fix what was broken. Now I can ask Jesus if His Father will be my Father, too. With God as my Father, His hands can fix anything in my world. He has the power to mend a broken heart like no one else ever could. I can come to Him at any time, about anything.

Some wounds remain for God to heal. I know how much more I can trust my loving, heavenly Father to bring healing to my wounds and to lead me the rest of the way home as I rest in “My Father’s Hands.”

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