His Father's Hands

I never got to meet my husband's parents.  Bill's mom, June, died when he was just nineteen and his father passed away the year before I met him.  I often ask him to describe them to me, or to hear about what he was like when he was a child.  I am always left wanting to know more.

What I do know is that my husband is the youngest in a blended family, with a thirteen year difference between him and his oldest brother, Phil.  His parents marriage was the second one for both, and they had three children between them before adding Bill and his sister.  June's first husband was an alcoholic who did not treat his spouse or children well.  She left this abusive marriage and later met my husbands father, Alfred.  He quickly became “Dad” to her own two children.

Recently Bill’s Aunt Sandra, his mother’s sister, came for a visit.  We all went to dinner, and luckily she loves to talk and tell stories. I listened intently as Sandra described what kind of boy my husband used to be, and what his parent’s marriage was like.  By all accounts it was a very happy one.  Tales of late night antics and winter tobogganing abounded.  Then the tone changed.  Sandra began to describe her sister’s first marriage, explaining that June's husband was an angry man, and unkind to his children, especially Bill’s brother. She shook her head as she recounted the details, stressing that it was such a blessing when her sister met Bill’s dad.

She smiled as she reminisced, “Alf was such a good man.  And he treated the kids so well.  There was an afternoon in the park, shortly after they met.  Phil was having a rough day, being really angry and having words with some other kids.  I’ll never forget, Alf walked over to him, put out his hand, and firmly but gently said ‘Come on, we’re going for a walk’.  And the two walked off together while Phil calmed down.”

She paused, then went on, “Here was Alf, a large, tall, imposing figure of a man reaching out to this young boy with his huge hands.  You know, it was just what that little guy needed.  He needed to see that a man can be strong and powerful yet gentle at the same time.  He needed to know that limits can be set in a firm way but with kindness and love.  It was something he never got from his own dad.”

Sandra finished her story and my eyes welled up.  I could picture the scene perfectly in my minds eye.  Bill’s father, reaching down and taking Phil’s hand, leading him away, calming him down.  It was as if I was observing that day in the park.   

Most likely the scene was so clear to me because my husband is the spitting image of his father.  Tall, ruggedly built, strong and handsome with large hands that are great for holding onto.  He has his father’s spirit as well.  Regardless of his size, my husband is amazingly gentle and abundantly kind.  He is a good father.  He knows how to set limits, but at the same time has a keen sense of what people need to feel secure.  When I’m around him, I feel safe - safer then I’ve ever felt before.

I thought about what an important role this man, my husband's father, played in the lives of his children.  I thought about Bill’s brother, gently being led away and getting exactly what he needed in that moment.  I thought about Bill’s mom, June, who was brave enough to leave a bad relationship at a time when women didn’t do that.  What courage it must have taken to do so.

I thought about the children I work with.  Kids who need so badly the kind of adults that my husband’s parents were.  Adults that act, even just once, with kindness, courage and gentleness of spirit.  Adults that keep them feeling safe and loved and important.  

I never got to meet my husband's parents, but I feel like I know them.  I see their love, kindness, sense of humor and strength in the spirit and resiliency of their own children.  What a gift they both gave to their family.  


Some names have been changed to protect anonymity.