Hands that are large and tough from years of rugged outdoor work.

Hands with fingers sensitive to a child’s touch, but too thick to touch just one key on the piano.

Hands that are versatile, able to pound an ax into an oak or swipe a fistful of berries from a nearby blackberry bush.

Hands that clasp themselves habitually in prayer -- giving thanks for food, for rain, for sun, for family and loved ones, for a newborn calf.

Hands that are strong, squeezing out a pail full of milk in just no time, pulling strands of barbed wire tight, carrying mountains of hay and oceans of water to hungry, thirsty farm animals.

Hands that are gentle, marveling at the softness of a furry kitten, rescuing a bird’s nest from the path of the plow, patting the shoulder of a disappointed child.

Hands that would fix things: a broken toy, a broken water pipe, a child’s broken heart… with simply a touch.

Hands that are tired from decades of tilling, planting, weeding and harvesting.

Hands that I love -- a farmer’s hands,

-- my Father’s hands.

Ken Mettler   1990