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My grandfather Vincent DiManto owned and operated Vince’s Garage, a car repair shop, for close to 40 years. Legend has it the idea came to him while driving to Santa Cruz with his family, when he helped a stranded motorist along treacherous Highway 17.
Vince, or “Papa” as I knew him, was always good with his hands. For him, it’s something that came with the territory. His parents emigrated from Naples, and everyone in his family were farmers. He was routinely weeks late to the start of school because of harvest season. Papa learned to drive a truck before age 13, and as things were, if he knew how to drive a truck, he’d also be leaned upon to repair the truck if it needed fixing.
He used to balance my Aunt Kathy, at that time a toddler, in the palm of his hand like an entertainer would balance spinning plates on the old variety shows. I saw a few 8mm clips of him standing her up, holding her steady with his other hand, then removing that hand and letting her stand on her own power. Her feet planted firmly in his hand, his eyes trained on her. It was a delicate process, without question, but she was never in any danger while under his watch.
I felt like I could trust my grandfather’s hand: they’d planted crops, fixed carburetors and balanced daughters. However, I have trouble trusting my own hands.
I edit videos for a living, and I’m currently in a masters program for creative writing. Neither of these activities toughen up my hands the way that crops and carburetors toughened up my grandfather’s. In my mind, if my hands don’t show the same wear and tear of my grandfather’s, I wind up doubting the efficacy and impact of my work. If my hands aren’t as worn and leathered as his, then whatever I’ve been doing, no matter how stressful or taxing, is insignificant. I’m put my hands to meaningless tasks and the creation of useless things.
In this corrupted track of thinking, I’m inept at— incapable, even—of making good things. My hands, in this warped self-view, simply aren’t meant to make good things, and they aren’t meant to hold good things either. After all, if I can’t make good things, how can I be trusted to hold and care for the good things? My hands are the equivalent of bulls in china shops, destroying every fragile, precious item within reach.
What if I’m wrong about how I view my hands?
A few years back, I traveled to Kenya as part of a small missions team: four women, and me, the only man on the trip. We spent the majority of our days at a home for orphaned children, which consisted of 15 girls and 4 boys. We’d play all sorts of games, including soccer, tag, freeze tag, and a helicopter-like game where we’d hold the kids by the hands and spin them endlessly.
One day, we taught the kids about trust falls. The kids stood, backs to us, and we’d count to three. On ‘three’, they would fall back into our arms, trusting us to catch them. They loved this game and wanted to keep falling and being caught. Over and over…and over again.
Some kids would drop fine, while others would launch themselves backwards into my arms, but there was one, Stella, who would creep back on her heels until she felt my hands, and then lean back. I stopped her and said “Try again, Stella.”
She stood, back to me. When I started counting, she did the same thing as before, inching backward until she felt my hands. The crowd of kids wanting a turn swirled around us, but I wanted to work with Stella. “It’ll be alright, Stella,” I said. “Try again.”
Stella nodded, turned and stood in position. But still, as soon as I started counting, she did the same thing.
I stopped her one more time, crouched down so that my eyes met hers, and I said, “Stella, it’s okay. Trust me. I will catch you. I’ll catch you.”
I’ll catch you.
And out of nowhere, there was a kind of music coursing through my voice, a seasoning and scent to those words and tones of a father; someone with good hands who can care for good things. I’d heard myself say words that a father might, but as soon as I said those words I felt my heart shed skin.
I sounded like a father—not like my father, but a father, someone who shepherded, someone who disciplined, someone who loved, who encouraged, who propped up, who wiped away tears, who steadied, who tied shoelaces, who gave piggy-back rides, who taught you how to swim, who pulled teeth and taught you about the tooth fairy, who told you to put your hands at ten and two. Someone who loved and gave goodnight kisses, someone who read their favorite stories to you, someone who looked up at the stars and made up stories with you, someone who made s’mores with you, someone who prayed with you, someone who shouted, someone who roared, someone who worked hard and sweated and leaned back at the dinner table and frowned way too much. Someone who held you close, someone who hugged super-duper tight and someone who held you close—sternum-to-sternum-close—so close you could hear your father’s heartbeat, that your heart would become his heart.
Praise God, my Father, I sounded like a Father. I felt like a Father.
“Stella, it’s okay. Trust me. I will catch you. I’ll catch you.”
That affectionate Fatherhood dwelling in me since my dawn, since my time in the womb and now emerging, now blooming and blossoming and breaking forth into light — that steadied dear Stella.
Who fell, just like I asked. Because she trusted me to catch her.
With my Fatherhood hands.
This story of Stella and trust falls is the truth I cling to when I doubt the goodness of my hands and their efforts. Yes, I know that regardless of how many engines I fix, no matter how many crops I plant, no matter how many children I catch, my hands won’t be like my grandfather’s. And that’s okay. I was made with love, for love. Furthermore, if my hands are an extension of the grace and affection that they were made with and intended for, I know that without question, I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be.
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Photo credit: Shutterstock