You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their hands.
Sometimes you can tell what they do for a living, what they spend time doing, or even what mistakes they might have made along the way.
I remember when Emaleigh was in kindergarten and she learned how to do the monkey bars, she had blisters all over the palms of her hands. It was almost like a kindergarten rite of passage to get these blisters. As she got older and quit doing the monkey bars as often, her blisters went away.
When I was younger, my Dad had this special orange soap (literally it smelled like oranges) that was supposed to be tough on grease. Every night before dinner, he would wash his hands with that soap and no matter how hard he scrubbed, his hands still looked dirty. You see, my dad was (is) one of the hardest working people that I know. He worked sun up to well over sun down on and around the farm. Years of dirt, grease, oil, joy, and pain filled under each fingernail and within every crease of his rough, cracked, hands…making it almost impossible for them to be fully clean.
I’ll never forget when I saw my Dad for the first time about 4 years ago. I didn’t notice the green uniform that made him instantly identifiable as an inmate, nor did I notice standard issue boots that every other male in the gray chairs were wearing. As crazy as it sounds, it wasn’t completely shocking to me to see my dad as a prison inmate (bear with me).
What caught me most off guard was looking down at my Dad’s hands. They were no longer the hands I remember so fondly during my childhood. The rugged hands that grease the tractors, the hands callused from shoveling for hours, or the stained hands that would clench the spoon over his late night bowl of cereal; these were not the same hands. The hands that I was looking at were stark white and there was nothing that said, “now there’s a hard worker”. These hands that reached across the table for mine were soft and unrecognizable.
Yesterday, we were able to go see my Dad again. Again, I saw his hands. No matter how many times I am faced with the hands, I will never get used to them. No matter how many times we make the trip to see him, it will never get any easier when it’s time to leave.
As we were driving home I couldn’t quit thinking about his hands. Then I realized, no matter how many times we try to wash our hands they will always be dirty. We try and try on our own to wash them clean. Sometimes, we get them as clean as we are able to and call it good not even realizing that we are doing it all wrong. But, it’s not until we give Jesus our hands for Him to clean, that all of the junk is washed off of them. We can’t do it by ourselves.
Nothing can take away the hard work that my Dad did with his hands…the lines of a great life and hard work are still there. I do miss seeing his old, rough hands but I am thankful to be able to reach across and grab his hands that are clean.
As hard as it is to admit and as hard as it is to see him there, my Dad is where he needs to be. I say this because it is the place where he was at his lowest but it was also the place where Jesus was able to get, and keep, his attention.
It is in that very place, in that cell, where Jesus washed his hands (and continually washes them) with him.
mrsmomdragon 
My dearest , Caiti-Bug, it is so awesome to see you praising Jesus. The thought of you seeing Jesus in your father’s life is such a proclamation of how amazing God is , and how He’s done an amazing work in your life . I see the progress in your way of life and also praise God to have such a wonderful daughter to call my own . I know how difficult it is for you to speak of his incarceration, however , it is more important to praise his walk with Jesus. Your father loves you so dearly as I do . Thank you for your wisdom and inspiring words. Always keep your head to the sky. We know not the hour nor the day , Jesus will come for us . Amen
I have no words other than I love you…