Happy birthday, Dad! You’ve spent more than half of your birthdays being my father, and I want to thank you for holding me—and others—up with joy for the greater portion of your life.
Your hands held my chubby ankles so I could do the things babies do—namely, shouting across your hair and eating it, as pictured above.
Your hands held the grips of table soccer rods as you taught me hand-eye coordination (and the value of never giving up—because you never played easy and wouldn’t let me quit).
Your hands held G2 pilot pens as you sketched upright pianos and flower vases on school lunch notes that brimmed with encouragement and puns.
Your hands held paintbrushes loaded with pungent interior wood stain as you finished a handmade treasure chest to guard my most precious tangible teenage memories.
Your hands held the gear shift in moments when I and everyone else needed my beginner-driver self to just put the vehicle in park during a debrief before trying to parallel park again.
Your hands held my shoulders when they shook out my loneliest tears the day your departure signaled the end to anyone I knew in southwest Missouri as I began my college journey.
Your hands held my suitcases as we ascended the escalator to the flight that took me away to Eastern Europe for a year—and then another year.
Your hands held sopping cardboard boxes while moving me out of Washington in the middle of the night and frozen ones while moving me down to Missouri in the dead of winter.
Your hands held my fiancé’s hands as you told him he was the answer to a prayer you had prayed for decades.
Your hands held a communion chalice at my wedding ceremony to symbolize Jesus’ sacrifice for us—a life sacrifice you imitate every day by dying to self and lifting up those around you.
You have held me up more than I could ever hold you as repayment, and I pray that this season of your life will reveal to you the ways God has established the work of your hands (Psalm 90:17).
Happy, happy, happy birthday. ❤