THE HAMMER

It looks like an old hammer with a cracked handle that needs to be thrown out. It is old. I do not know when it was bought. It was last used by him in 1967. His large, strong hands gripped the handle and drove the nails to build many houses. I do not know the last time he used it. Was it to hang a picture, repair a loose nail, or build something new? Was he already sick? Did he know he was sick? Was he thinking about me? Those same hands that gripped the handle were the same ones that soothed my brow when I was sick with fever. Those hands pointed to the night sky to show me the stars and planets. Those hands planted food and hunted game to provide for his family. Those hands opened his Bible so he could read and study the Word of God. Those hands led singing in our small little church. Those hands held me when I was just a tiny little baby. It may look like an old hammer with a cracked handle that needs to be thrown out; but it isn’t. The hammer was my Daddy’s and his hands were the ones that touched it last.