His hands...

I miss his hands. I miss everything, but lately, I’ve been thinking about Scott’s hands. Beautifully scarred and rough. They always felt strong and sure when he held mine. Those hands literally built cars and planes, and fixed any and every broken thing he could find for 39 years. He had marks and scars everywhere, most from his youth, but some he added while I knew him. One of his fingers, I think it was his ring finger, bent the wrong way. I can’t remember why. Maybe some sport injury or jam that happened years ago, or maybe it was just… Scott.

For years, those hands came home with grease and grime under them, and though he would scrub and wash, they would never fully get clean. Honestly, I never minded. Those hardworking hands supported our family of 2, 3, 4, 5, and then 6, never complaining about the scratches, cuts, burns, or pinches they endured as an airplane mechanic. They worked hard, every single day, and they came home weary but ready for more.

And then, there were the 12 years his hands held, loved and guided our babies: cradling, brushing little girl hair, teaching our boys to build model planes, holding hands while crossing the street, waving and clapping while they sang in the Christmas concert. So much love, so much care given through those rough, mechanic

hands as if they turned to butter when the kids were near them.

I miss how he always knew where we were going, because I rarely did. He would hold out his hand and wait for mine, and I would just place it inside and walk. He knew, and I trusted. I didn’t even need to know the plan or have directions, I just needed to hold on. I miss that, not worrying about where to go, being led.

I see glimpses of Scott’s hands now in my boys as they get bigger. They have the same gift of working with them that their dad did. I pray they will use them in the same loving, wise and strong ways Scott did.

There is no touch, no clasp or embrace that will ever compare to those hands.