This Father’s Day, we encourage you to spend time with family and friends to celebrate dads together. Though time and age can change each of us, the things that are unshakeable are our ties to one another.

My Dad's Hands

Bedtime came, we were settling down,

I was holding one of my lads.

As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:

My hands. . .they looked like my dad's!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,

there was always a cracked nail or two.

And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,

his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,

as strong as a carpenter's vice.

But holding a scared little boy at night,

they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands - how impressive it was

in the eyes of his little boy.

Other dads' hands were cleaner, it seemed

(the effects of their office employ).

I gave little thought in my formative years

of the reason for Dad's raspy mitts:

The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,

rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,

when one day my time is done.

The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands

will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don't mind the bruises, the scars here and there

or the hammer that just seemed to slip.

I want most of all when my son takes my hand,

to feel that love lies in the grip.

By David Kettler