Daddy's Hands

Often my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was a little girl. Here is one of their favorites in honor of my Daddy, now in heaven with His Lord. I wrote the piece when he was 87.

DADDY’S HANDS

Eileen Rife © 2000

A large hand reached down to grasp my small hand. My daddy was walking me to school. I looked up at him in wonder. He was so tall. So strong. Dark wavy hair framed his tanned face. Deep blue eyes twinkled in the morning light. A whistle spewed from his lips. I felt safe. My daddy was with me.

           

Lost in my reflection, I suddenly felt daddy's hand gently release mine and nudge me inside the school door. As he squeezed me, he planted a warm kiss on my cheek. My heart sank to let daddy go. I fought back the tears, reassuring myself that I would soon be home again.

The school bell rang and I bolted for the school door. Several yards down the sidewalk, I skidded to a stop. I waited as the traffic light changed from red to green. Then I dashed across the street to Mr. Adam's store, my routine stopping place after a tiring school day.

Inside the store, the aroma of fresh fruit filled my nostrils. I observed Mr. Adams in his blood-stained apron slicing meat behind the glass counter. Up front, the cashier rang up an elderly lady's goods as the bag boy meticulously sorted the items into a bag.

I veered to the right, past the cashier and straight to my favorite aisle--CANDY LANE! My mouth watered as I eyed the chocolate bars, lollipops, and bubble gum. 

Mmm, what am I in the mood for today? I pondered. After scanning the goodie buffet, I decided on a two-cent piece of bubble gum--the rectangular pink kind with the twin halves wrapped in cartoon paper. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my money. To my chagrin, my pockets were empty. I frantically racked my brain for a solution. The thought struck that since kind Mr. Adams often gave me candy, he probably wouldn't care if I took this tiny piece of bubble gum. Settled in my mind, I quickly shoved the gum in my pocket and hurried to the door.

Once home, I laid the gum beside my bookbag on the kitchen table and went to the sink to get a drink of water. Just then, daddy entered the kitchen. In his typical booming fashion, he spoke: "How was school today?"

"Fine," I glibly responded. 

Daddy glanced at my bookbag and then at the gum. "Where'd you get the gum?" he casually asked. 

I set my glass down and slowly turned to face daddy while bracing my body against the counter. A flicker of guilt flashed across my mind. Hot shame started at my neck and crept up into my face.

Clearing my throat, I answered, "At Adam's Store." I hoped daddy would be satisfied with that answer. He wasn't. He knew he had not given me any treat money that day. 


Daddy persisted in his line of questioning. All of a sudden, I felt like I'd stepped into a wild west show. I was the bad guy and daddy was the law. I didn't like this show-down. I wanted to run away with the dust at my heels and not look back. But there would be no running today. I was cornered and I knew it.

"Did Mr. Adams give you the gum, Eileen?" daddy asked. 


My face turned red. I felt hot again. Like a trapped firefly trying to escape from a sealed jar, I longed for release from daddy's questions.

At last I mustered the courage to speak. "Well...no," I stammered, looking down at the floor. I nervously slid one foot back and forth across the tile. "But Mr. Adams always gives us candy anyway," I shot back. My words even sounded hollow to my ears. I knew I was in serious trouble. Daddy placed a high premium on honesty. This act of treachery was going to cost me. I watched daddy's hands. I expected him to spank me. Instead, he reached for the phone and called Mr. Adams.

When daddy hung up the phone, he turned and faced me. "You best take that gum back," he said with resolve. As I started to leave, daddy softened. He took my arm and gently patted my back. "Supper will be ready when you get home," he added.

In that instant, I felt a reassuring love emanating from daddy's hands. He had used his hands not only to instruct, but also to love, reminding me of my heavenly Father. How often God’s Son had used His hands to love people, to teach, to heal, and then to submit to the nails. All for my benefit.

My dad is eighty-seven now. He shuffles when he walks. I take his weak hand in my strong hand. He looks up at me with a smile and that familiar twinkle in his clear blue eyes and I smile back. 

“Isn’t God good?” daddy says. 

“Yes, daddy, He sure is,” I respond.

For the Writer: Expect Criticism

If you write for a larger audience than family and friends, expect criticism. Not everyone is gonna like the things you say nor the way you say them. Several thoughts come to mind when considering how to deal with criticism. 

View every form of criticism as a learning experience.

Critique partners offer constructive suggestions on how to improve our writing. Readers sometimes offer harsh criticism on comment forums and review sites. Regardless the origin or intent of the one delivering criticism, his words can be turned into pure gold, if we view them as a way to grow, both as a writer and as a person. How is this possible? 

Pray first then practice humility.

I'll be the first to admit--criticism, whether intended to help or to hurt, can prick the heart and make me wanna kick the dog, if I had one. But if I'm always trying to defend my words or blubbering the injustice of criticism to others, I'm stuck. I'll never grow. And I'm investing precious energy venting rather than creating and tweaking. The best remedy I've found for dealing with the sting of criticism is prayer.

When you feel that stab of pain, take a deep cleansing breath and run to the Lord. Vent with Him, if need be, then ask Him to give you wisdom as you process the reader's words. If you sense the Lord leading you to reply, let humility guide your response. Often, a simple "thank you" for sharing your thoughts is enough to let the reader know you value his input. 

Choose wisely.

We need not address every reader concern, only those God leads us to interact with. Even the harshest comment may have a bit of truth behind it. And often, pain. While we may not be called as therapists, we are called to be sensitive to the needs of others. Hurtful words often come from a hurting heart. At other times, harsh words are the reader's way of struggling for answers. Rarely, is s/he attacking you as a person. The attack may very well be aimed at what you stand for. 

If the reader is challenging your faith, this may be a good opportunity to provide more witness. Again, let the Lord be your guide. Sometimes, a quiet prayer for the reader is all that's required. This, too, is an act of humility. And self-control. 

But most of all . . . love.

Allow yourself to grow as your reader audience grows. Learn to view every form of criticism as a learning experience fueled by prayer and met with humility, wisdom, self control, and love.

This House was Made to Live In

Okay, how many "out there" will stand up with me and courageously proclaim:

Hi, my name is ____________ and I am a compulsive housekeeper.

Need a little help identifying yourself?

The Random House College Dictionary defines compulsion as "an obsessive need to achieve some desired ideal of behavior." In this instance, the desired ideal is a clean house.

But what is clean? Ask ten different women what a clean house means and you might receive ten different answers.

For the compulsive housekeeper, "clean" is never fully realized. There is always one more lint speck to pick off the carpet or one more smudge to wipe off a window or one more minute dirty spot to scrub off the kitchen linoleum. In her mind, it never stops.

If you are one of these scrupulous housekeepers, you can identify completely.

Want some relief? Consider the following:

1)  CHANGE YOUR BELIEF SYSTEM.

Rather than thinking of yourself as a housekeeper, think of yourself as a homemaker. There is a world of difference. Proverbs 14:1 says, "The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands."

"Building" a home that values each family member and seeks to develop godly character by emphasizing the fruit of the Spirit is a sharp contrast to merely building a house that showcases polished silver and gleaming woodwork.

One focuses on people. The other focuses on possessions.

Which would you rather invest your life and love in? People who can throw their arms around you, offering hugs and kisses or on possessions that sit in a corner gathering dust and couldn’t care less about all your efforts?

FOCUS ON WHAT REALLY MATTERS IN LIFE.

2)   MAKE A PLAN FOR HOUSEKEEPING.

And then stick to it! Allot a certain amount of time each day to care for the physical needs of the house, such as vacuuming, dusting, mopping, or washing clothes. With my plan, I wash clothes on Monday, fold on Tuesday, dust and vacuum on Thursday, clean the bathrooms and mop on Friday. Tailor your plan to suit the needs of your household. Stick to your plan and you will soon discover you are not as compulsive in your housekeeping as you once were.

3)   PULL THE KIDS IN ON THE ACT.

If your compulsion stems from a need for control, this will really test your limits! However, even young children can help with simple chores. In all truth, this stage of life can be one of the greatest growth experiences for the compulsive house-keeper (except perhaps the teenage phase =). Don't despair. Remember, it all goes back to what is really important:  building a home where each member's contribution is valued. Lower your standards, accepting the stage of development each child is in, and thanking him for his efforts. Resist the temptation to rush in and redo what he has already done.  

With some focus and discipline, you CAN overcome compulsive housekeeping, building a home that is truly a joy to live in!   

====================================

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Daddy's Hands

Often my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was a little girl. Here is one of their favorites in honor of my Daddy, now in heaven with His Lord. I wrote the piece when he was 87.

DADDY’S HANDS

Eileen Rife © 2000

A large hand reached down to grasp my small hand. My daddy was walking me to school. I looked up at him in wonder. He was so tall. So strong. Dark wavy hair framed his tanned face. Deep blue eyes twinkled in the morning light. A whistle spewed from his lips. I felt safe. My daddy was with me.

           

Lost in my reflection, I suddenly felt daddy's hand gently release mine and nudge me inside the school door. As he squeezed me, he planted a warm kiss on my cheek.

My heart sank to let daddy go. I fought back the tears, reassuring myself that I would soon be home again.

The school bell rang and I bolted for the school door. Several yards down the sidewalk, I skidded to a stop. I waited as the traffic light changed from red to green. Then I dashed across the street to Mr. Adam's store, my routine stopping place after a tiring school day.

Inside the store, the aroma of fresh fruit filled my nostrils. I observed Mr. Adams in his blood-stained apron slicing meat behind the glass counter. Up front, the cashier rang up an elderly lady's goods as the bag boy meticulously sorted the items into a bag.

I veered to the right, past the cashier and straight to my favorite aisle--CANDY LANE! My mouth watered as I eyed the chocolate bars, lollipops, and bubble gum.

Mmm, what am I in the mood for today? I pondered. After scanning the goodie buffet, I decided on a two-cent piece of bubble gum--the rectangular pink kind with the twin halves wrapped in cartoon paper. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my money. To my chagrin, my pockets were empty. I frantically racked my brain for a solution. The thought struck that since kind Mr. Adams often gave me candy, he probably wouldn't care if I took this tiny piece of bubble gum. Settled in my mind, I quickly shoved the gum in my pocket and hurried to the door.

Once home, I laid the gum beside my bookbag on the kitchen table and went to the sink to get a drink of water. Just then, daddy entered the kitchen. In his typical booming fashion, he spoke: "How was school today?"

"Fine," I glibly responded.

Daddy glanced at my bookbag and then at the gum. "Where'd you get the gum?" he casually asked.

I set my glass down and slowly turned to face daddy while bracing my body against the counter. A flicker of guilt flashed across my mind. Hot shame started at my neck and crept up into my face.

Clearing my throat, I answered, "At Adam's Store." I hoped daddy would be satisfied with that answer. He wasn't.  He knew he had not given me any treat money that day. Daddy persisted in his line of questioning. All of a sudden, I felt like I'd stepped into a wild west show. I was the bad guy and daddy was the law. I didn't like this show-down. I wanted to run away with the dust at my heels and not look back. But there would be no running today. I was cornered and I knew it.

"Did Mr. Adams give you the gum, Eileen?" daddy asked. My face turned red. I felt hot again. Like a trapped firefly trying to escape from a sealed jar, I longed for release from daddy's questions.

At last I mustered the courage to speak. "Well...no," I stammered, looking down at the floor. I nervously slid one foot back and forth across the tile. "But Mr. Adams always gives us candy anyway," I shot back. My words even sounded hollow to my ears. I knew I was in serious trouble. Daddy placed a high premium on honesty. This act of treachery was going to cost me. I watched daddy's hands. I expected him to spank me. Instead, he reached for the phone and called Mr. Adams.

When daddy hung up the phone, he turned and faced me. "You best take that gum back," he said with resolve. As I started to leave, daddy softened. He took my arm and gently patted my back. "Supper will be ready when you get home," he added.

In that instant, I felt a reassuring love emanating from daddy's hands. He had used his hands not only to instruct, but also to love, reminding me of my heavenly Father. How often God’s Son had used His hands to love people, to teach, to heal, and then to submit to the nails. All for my benefit.

My dad is eighty-seven now. He shuffles when he walks. I take his weak hand in my strong hand. He looks up at me with a smile and that familiar twinkle in his clear blue eyes and I smile back.

“Isn’t God good?” daddy says.

“Yes, daddy, He sure is,” I respond.

Daytime Blue Ridge WSLS TV 10 interview

Thanks to those of you who prayed for me during my Second Chance interview today. Continue to pray the the Lord will use the book to touch lives with His love and forgiveness, and purpose.

Riveted by these words today . . .

Riveted by these words today that kept flowing through my mind . . .

O Love that will not let me go.

Written by George Matheson over one-hundred years ago, these words fuel spirit, soul, and body. Here's the complete hymn. Savor the beautiful, meaningful poetry along with me as the day gives way to dusk on this December Wednesday.

"O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O Light that foll'west all my way,
I yield my flick'ring torch to Thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in Thy sunshine's blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me thru pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee;
I trace the rainbow thru the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
I lay in dust life's glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be."

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