The hand of my father held me while I crossed the street
And locked the doors while I prayed “Now I lay me down to sleep”

(Sometimes when I was scared at night he would tease me and make me more afraid, and sometimes he would sleep with me and make the monsters go away)

The hand of my father held the camera to make the memory last
And turned the pages that told stories from the past

(When it was a video camera in his hand I only got a quick scan for my brother was the football star.)

The hand of my father held the candle when the lights went out
And caught me as I jumped and yelled out a shout

(I especially remember studying for an Alabama history test in 4^th grade by candlelight – appropriate I think.)

The hand of my father gave me milk because it was good for me
And spatted my legs when I didn’t drink it happily

 (I hate milk!  The milk sat there in my bowl and it was warm.  My brother kept teasing me until my dad couldn’t take it anymore and blistered my legs.  I puked.  Daddy cried later to Mama.)

The hand of my father held a Bible in his hand
And held my hand until the end

 (My father cared more about sharing Jesus with others the last years of his life than any other person I know.  He is with our Father now.)

In the hand of my Father I am His sheep
And He created my world “when He drew a circle on the face of the deep…” Proverbs 8:27b

My own father had his faults.  He loved me the best way he knew how. 
God, my Father has no faults.  He loves me completely even when I don’t know how.

 Copyright May 26, 2009 Kim Crawford