I was thinking this past week of Christmas as a child in the late 40s and early 50s. In particular I recalled having received a new sled and the day after Christmas having left it behind a car in our neighbor’s driveway. Dragging the crushed sled home in tears, I feared the wrath of my father—a fear enhanced by my mother’s “Just wait until your father gets home!” I immediately “hid” myself under the covers of my sister’s bed. Soon I heard Dad come in, heard some conversation in the kitchen, and heard heavy male footsteps on the stairs, down the hall into my bedroom, and then into my supposed sanctuary. But my wise and godly father gave me mercy instead of wrath. How relieved I was to be able to cry at his chest, and not receive a spanking.
Family and friends remember Dad for almost all good reasons, but one physical feature they all recall was his big hands. Once when we were eating in a restaurant, a waitress stopped and commented, “Goodness, are those your hands? For a second there I thought you had your feet on the table!” And with that rude remark, she hustled off to the kitchen, leaving Dad in embarrassed silence.
It seems like everyone noticed his large hands. Years after his death, a friend would sometimes say, “My, your dad sure had big hands. Whenever he shook my hand, it almost got lost in his big mitt!” The remarks of friends and relatives, however, were not unkind; they arose naturally out of their memories of a man with a heart as big as his hands.
Henry was born into a family of eight children on a small farm in West Michigan in 1902. And it was the farm that was to shape his life—and his hands. Milking cows, wielding the ax, steering the cultivator, and reining horses helped to develop his stocky frame and broaden the girth of his growing hands. Formal schooling ended for him after eighth grade. The demands of the farm in the years of World War I meant that school could not continue: Americans needed to feed England and France. Dad did not marry until age 28, and I, the youngest of four, did not enter the family until he was forty. But soon those big hands were 
to have a profound impact on my life. With memory’s eye, I can still see Elsie Egermeier’s Bible Story Book cradled in those hands as he read to us after each evening meal. Even now when I read of Noah, Moses, David, or Jonah, I am transported back to those warm and secure times right after World War II.
We kids used to chuckle when Dad’s big, callused fingers struggled with the wispy, thin pages of his Scofield Study Bible. His Bibles wore out rather quickly, but not merely because of his hands: they were tattered by constant use. Along with his giant hands, he had a giant faith. The Bible was his guide in his worship, in his love for Mom, in his concern for others, in his generosity, and in his philosophy of child-rearing and discipline. Dad did not use a belt or a brush or any other implement when it was necessary to apply a little corporal punishment. He used those big hands—hard enough to smart, but never injure.
Many child psychologists, with some justification, claim that parents should not use their hands to spank—for fear that a child might become terrified of their hands. Instead, they claim, some neutral object like a wooden spoon should stand as the symbol of punishment. Then the child will mostly fear the object and not the parent. Perhaps this is true in some instances, but since my father was just as quick to use those hands to pick me up, place me on his lap, and embrace me with arms of love and forgiveness, I never cringed in their presence.
Those wonderful big hands, however, did teach me some valuable lessons about God: He is a God of love and mercy, but He is also my heavenly Father who must chasten me when I disobey, push me when I need help getting started, point the way when I need direction, lift me when I must get over the rough spots, stop me when I go astray, and clasp me in love’s embrace when sorrow comes. That’s what I can expect from the hands of God. No follower of Christ needs to fear the big hands of a just but merciful heavenly Father.
My regret is that only one of our three sons knew Dad long enough to remember Bappa’s big hands. To him those hands were the fascinating extensions of a loving heart reflected through twinkling eyes and a broad smile.
When he died at age 73, it was only fitting that Mom should lean over Dad’s casket, touch those hands, and echo the words of Catherine Marshall, “Good night, sweetheart, I’ll see you in the morning.”
I don’t know what Henry Ohlman’s heavenly body will look like, but I hope God will allow him to keep those wonderful, big hands!
KEY SCRIPTURE:
“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you” (Exodus 20:12).
They were sometimes handfed by Civilian Conservation Corps workers during the Great Depression. They watched FDR pondering his war decisions at Camp David (then called Shangri-la!). Daily they visit the trees around the lonely crash site of Flight 93 near Shanksville. And there they are today in my summer-weary Juneberry tree.
Their boldness is a wonder—a boldness my oldest son and I experienced at a camp a couple decades ago. Seeing a small flock of them in a pine tree nearby, I told Greg to pick a few peanut pieces out of his Snickers bar, place them in the palm of his hand, and walk slowly toward a low hanging bough. It was hardly a minute before one of the little birds landed on his hand to grab a treat. I had my camera with me, so I instructed Greg to hold really still so I could capture the event on film. Looking through the eyepiece, I saw one land again and then disappear before I could trip the shutter. But I held the camera still, thinking it would return soon—which it did, but not to my son’s hand: through the camera I saw Greg smiling and pointing toward me. I slowly lifted my head and found the bird perched on my telephoto lens! Neither of us will ever forget the joy of the wonderful feeling a human being has when he is trusted by vulnerable wild creatures.
What do John Muir, George MacDonald, and Rob Bell have in common? They believe(d) in the wonder and expansiveness of God’s love. Of course John Muir and George MacDonald have gone to their reward, MacDonald in 1905 and Muir nine years later. Rob Bell is alive, well, and preaching about God’s love—most recently in his controversial book Love Wins (You’d virtually have to have been deserted on a remote island the past few months not to have heard something about the book).
I’ve just returned from following in the footsteps of John Muir in California (and even flew last evening over Wisconsin within sight of his boyhood farm and the University of Wisconsin in Madison where he gained his higher education). As a part of my experience I have been reading Muir and more about Muir. One thing that comes through clearly in Muir’s musings is that he believed in a Creator God whose love extended to all of nature—even nature “red in tooth and claw.” He saw death as natural to all creatures and necessary to all creation, and nothing to be feared. Another thing certain about John Muir is that he knew the words of the Bible far better than the great majority of Bible-believing Christians today—forced by the beatings of his father to memorize the New Testament and a great deal of the Old. Perhaps it was the poetry of Psalm 
When the rod is falling on the flesh of a child, and, what may oftentimes be worse, heartbreaking scolding falling on its tender little heart, it makes the whole family seem far from the Kingdom of Heaven. In all the world, I know of nothing more pathetic and deplorable than a broken-hearted child, sobbing itself to sleep after being unjustly punished by a truly pious and conscientious misguided parent. . . . Your father, like my own, was, I devoutly believe, a sincere Christian, abounding in noble qualities, preaching the Gospel without money or price while working hard for a living, clearing land, blacksmithing, able for anything, and from youth to death never abating one jot his glorious foundational religious enthusiasm. I revere his memory with that of my father and the New England Puritan types of the best American pioneers whose unwavering faith in God’s eternal righteousness forms the basis of our country’s greatness.
Muir clearly remained in love with the Creator and with the creation. But the question many ask is this: Was he a Christian? If you do an Internet search of Muir along with that question, you will find that the query has been a common one. My own conclusion is that if a person’s life and words are not obviously Christian, it is difficult to answer in the affirmative. While we cannot answer that question with any certainty, I do like the conclusion make Paul J. Willis, English professor at Westmont College in his article on Muir that appears in the
We serve on the Christian Environmental Council together.” The result was that much of the skepticism about living out a creation careful life was overcome, and the rest of the story became the theme of this heartwarming and encouraging story about people of faith coming to understand how they could become “good earthkeepers” and also be positive witnesses for Christ.
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