I focused on his hands as the sounds of the life support system seemed to suffocate room 3101 of an Indiana ICU. Still, so still, my father’s hands rest by his side, weathered by age, yet beautifully revealing gifts long buried by life and routine. Holding his left hand, I stared at its hue, allowing — no, welcoming — a wave of memories to wash over me in the moment. It’s remarkable what we remember when time is no longer on our side.

In his hand, I see the grip of the steering wheel as he sat atop his beloved tractor to mow what seemed like miles of grass to a 6-year-old kid before giving my brother and me each a ride around our then New Jersey neighborhood. I see the passing of confidence as he gave me that last push on my blue banana-seat bike, this time finding balance, not bruises, as I sailed down Sunrise Terrace. I see his smile as his hand held a cone topped with his favorite butter pecan ice cream, and I see his wonder as he often raised his binoculars while sitting on any shore to magnify boats criss-crossing the waterways.

Looking closer, I notice his hand’s distinct lines, each one seemingly directing me to pause and reflect. These are the hands that taught me how to hold our dog’s leash, how to shovel snow, how to fish on a tiny Maine pond, how to row, and how to reach out to help others. In a flash, I even see how a hand confronts fear as I recall my dad grabbing the handgrip in a cable car along one of Pittsburgh’s most famous funiculars as we scaled 600 feet. He never did like heights.

His textured hand also betrays sheer pride as it joined the other in holding his grandchildren and applauding everything from a third-grade spelling bee win, to the best spike I ever made in a high school volleyball game, to my college graduation. And it was that hand, resting on our home’s bannister, that I somehow remember as my dad assured me that I’ll do what I do best in college and in a career — write. Thinking back, I now see his handprints covering my own path, as he, too, loved to write, having penned decades of sermons himself as a Lutheran pastor.

The monitors start to go off again, and a nurse arrives to check his status. I let go of his hand momentarily and turn away as I head to the hospital window. A standard rooftop scene greets me in the small alcove before my eyes glimpse the artwork to my right. My father and I share a love of water, and the image on the wall is of two lighthouses, one in the foreground and the other some distance away, yet both beacons of strength. In that image, right there in room 3101, I recognize that I’m in the midst of a journey, where my hands, much as I will them, are simply not strong enough to lift him out of this situation. No, that job is meant for the One far more powerful than me.

And so I wait and remember. Those hands that blessed babies and newly married couples, that baptized and buried parishioners, that did the sign of the cross during countless benedictions, and that connected around me so often in a hug now need their rest. The age spots have settled, and the lines seem a bit softer. The grip that grilled steaks, swung a golf club, steered boats, rode a bike, and held others’ hands, including my mom’s for 55 years, seems more relaxed, ready even. I know there is more — so much more — that I should recall and write down, but not now, not today.

The sounds eventually fade, and with my mom and brother by my side, we let go of his hands for good. A peaceful silence fills the air. I love and miss you, Dad. May Jesus hold your hands forever now.

Written in loving memory of Ronald E. Saatkamp (Nov. 10, 1942 - April 26, 2021) by his daughter, Karen.