Holding Hands

I like that you hold hands in Church, while driving and any other time it's handy. (Don't blame me for the corny humor...I come by it honestly...from both sides, but mostly Dad.) And even though we thought it was gross growing up, I'm glad you make-out in the kitchen and pinch eachother's rears when you think no-one is looking.
Speaking of Hand Holding etc. Here's a blog post I made to my personal blog a while back:

Large, rough and calloused, my father's hands are a study in love. From the little hours to sundown, for decades, they have labored diligently to keep a large and happy family in shoes, clothing and good health. Scars tell stories of trees and gardens expertly groomed. Cracks recount cold winters and dry sawdust. Wrinkles remind of Christmas sacrifices to craft indelible memories.
It was his hand, or rather one finger of his hand, that I held when I first walked in the Grove where Joseph saw the Lord, I looked at my father's face, and I knew it was a sacred place where we walked. As my father holds my mother's equally beautiful hand in his, I can't help but recall how those weathered, leathered hands gently and patiently helped to sculpt my faith in my Heavenly Father's love.Every summer, family outings found us piled in our '78 Chevy van, which of course, became a 4x4 with dad at the wheel. He managed to always find untouched retreats at the end of abandoned logging roads nestled in the California Sierra Nevada.

One of my favorite habits on such adventures was finding the perfect sheet of granite just under the surface of the snow melt river. I'd sit with the frigid water streaming over my dusty legs and hot feet, not caring about the numbness, rapid current or even the occasional leech. I just wanted to experience nature and make the most of the quickly ebbing summer days.

On one such occasion, I remember how excited I was to find a little niche in a naturally occurring dam. As the water poured over the slabs of granite, a small bite out of the rock formed a perfect chair. I watched as my older brothers, who insisted on testing it first, let the rush of water blast their bare backs as they sat in the perfect throne.

When my turn came, I realized right away that the water hit me more on the neck than my back. I gripped the sides of the rock that half surrounded me, but the force was too strong for a 12 year old girl. The undercurrent caught me and pulled me under as my head hit the rock where I had tried to sit. The pain made me panic and I had trouble holding my breath. Just then, I felt a large, strong hand grab my forearm and pull me out of the river entirely. “I thought I'd lost you” I heard my father say as he helped me to the shore.

Later, looking up at the universe of stars as they can only be seen high in the mountains, I remember thinking how grateful I was that my Dad was watching over me and I thanked my Father in Heaven for such loving parents.

Fast forward eight years to another summer night. I remember the look of distress and concern in my mother's eyes as she firmly expressed her disapproval of the decision I had made to date a young man she and my father knew was a poor choice for me. My dad was quieter, but equally upset. I probably said something disrespectful about being an adult and knowing how to choose for myself before storming off to my room to cry. I didn't want to hear what they thought. I was having fun and experiencing life.A quarter of an hour later, my father came in and sat beside me. He enfolded me in his arms, his hands patting my back. Gently and simply he said “We love you and want you to be happy. We know that you know better. We just want you to make the right choices.”

My rage melted and I knew that they saw the matter more clearly than I had allowed myself to see it.I broke off my relationship with the young man and again found myself thanking my Heavenly Father that my earthly father was there to watch over me. That pivotal decision, I feel, has helped to lead me on paths that have made my life so much fuller and richer than it might have been had my father not listened to the voice of the spirit in order to be a ready instrument in the Lord's hands.

Years later, I find myself happily married and raising a daughter of my own. Not long ago, however, I felt myself lagging in my spiritual growth and letting tiny doubts seep in. I called my parents and chatted about toddlerisms and siblings, new happenings and old friends. I'm not certain if Dad felt prompted to share or if he was just bubbling over with excitement as he told a story of his latest faith building moment as an ordinance worker in the Sacramento Temple. As he spoke, my heart softened and I knew what he was testifying of was true and sacred. My testimony was jump started as I found myself being rescued from the currents of life and renewed with a gulp of living water.

As with many “lifelong members”, my testimony of the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ was formed a drop at a time. So many of those drops distilled during father's blessings at the beginning of each new school year when the warm hands atop my head filled my whole spirit with warmth and understanding. Those hands baptized me and held the word of God during many a family fireside study. When I was sick and fevered, they anointed my head and afterward held me close till the pain passed. On my mission, I asked myself if I was being the kind of servant that would honor my earthly and my Heavenly Father's trust. Regardless of how far I have travelled and the trials I have faced, my father and his calloused, gentle hands have been there for me as a constant anchor and a continual manifestation of the love the Lord has for each of His children.