I used to have soft hands. There was a point in my life when I considered an air-conditioned office, crisp business cards, and stain-free pants as ideal benchmarks along the path toward a version of manhood content to call a guy to fix something if it broke, valued self-preservation over action, and shrugged shoulders at antiquated notions of chivalry. This Los Angeles flippancy and forty-dollar haircut worldview traveled with me — like a parasite on its host — as I began a new life far from home.
Five years later I met Larry.
You might describe Larry as a roughneck. Having worked Alaska’s North Slope oil fields for thirty years, Larry might refer to himself that way as well, yet no one who knows him would paste that label on him, despite the fact that few have ever seen him in anything other than blue denim Dickies overalls, or the fact that he can fix just about anything. He has rough hands. One shake and you’d conclude they’ve probably knocked out a few teeth, and for all I know they may have. He has an imposing frame, intimidating mustached grin, and deep, serious eyes that can make you flinch…and I love him.
It’s an unfortunate reality that many of my generation struggle to sift through the rubble of a legacy of divorce. It’s permeated my life, as well as my wife’s, and left our children bewildered by the multiple grandmas and grandpas who’ve come and gone over the years. As young parents we were faced with a dilemma: How to reconcile the actions of the men in their lives with the standard we were trying to set? We are a transitional generation. The men we grew up with did not espouse many of the values we’re trying to teach. We were desperate for examples of steadfast character; men who’ve stayed with the same woman their entire lives, who honor them by admitting failure, speak up for and cherish them, build them up, and faithfully provide. Larry was the first man I’d ever met who carried the perfect balance of fierceness and gentleness. I’ve come to know it well, and to recognize it in others.
Larry would never put a calendar of half-naked women on the wall in his garage. Larry would never speak an ill word against his wife; not in public, nor in private. Larry would be the first to point out his flaws, but he doesn’t blame, and doesn’t look back. While he will occasionally have fun at others’ expense, he is never cruel. It would bother him greatly if he offended you – unless you needed offending, in which case he wouldn’t be afraid to tell you, because he cares too much to let you go on destroying yourself with foolishness. With Larry, you get challenged when you’d like to coast along. You get honesty, even if you’d rather be lied to. You get loved when you feel isolated.
When you look around wondering who will show up to see you get baptized, you see Larry, because an hour’s drive in the snow on his day off means nothing, when compared with seeing you give your heart to the Savior that Larry loves.
When the red and blue lights of the ambulance are shining in your driveway at 3:00am, it’s Larry who shows up at your door. And in that moment, as you ask him through tears of desperation what you’re supposed to do, Larry tells you firmly, “Don’t worry about it. You just trust God.” His certainty gives you the strength to walk out into the night and face the storm. His heart teaches you how to love others. And his hands, rough and weathered, teach you that strength matters; a strength achieved by not being afraid to get them dirty.