The Silent Language of Love: Reading My Father's Hands

They were always strong, those hands. I remember them changing tires, building a treehouse, and firmly holding the back of my bicycle when I first learned to ride. They were tools of action, of providing and protecting. But it took me years to learn they were also a heart.

I noticed it first when he was quiet, listening to music. His rough, calloused fingers would tap gently on the arm of his chair, keeping time with a symphony only he could fully hear. Later, I saw the way they cradled a seedling as he taught my own child how to plant it in the soil, with an impossible tenderness for their size and strength. These were the moments the fortress walls came down. These were the sentences in the long, quiet story of his love, written not in words, but in gesture.

He never was one for grand speeches or easy "I love yous." His dictionary was written in service, in the silent fixing of a broken toy left on the floor, in the steady grip that helped me up after a fall, and in the warm, heavy hand on my shoulder that meant more than any award. I've learned to read the language of those hands. And now, as I see my own hands beginning to look like his, I hope I can speak that same quiet, powerful love.

What is the silent language of love in your life? Share your story in the comments.