It's impossible.

Have you ever had a moment that you literally felt frozen in time? Maybe it was the moment that you saw your bride for the first time as she walked down the aisle. Or that time you held your new born son. It could even be that moment, that you knew, in a glance that you found the one with which you were meant to spend the rest of your life.
I had a moment like that the other day.
No, I didn’t find the One. No, I didn’t hold a baby. (Shudder! No, I am not totally a baby-a-phobe but they aren’t on the priority list. My clock isn’t ticking.) And no, it wasn’t a wedding.
It was simply holding my dad’s hand.
There are so many things that I love about my dad, things I want in that potential mate. And hands like my dad make the list.
When I left for college, the first time, my dad tucked away something in the car that showed to the core who he is. He had traced his hands on a simple piece of ply wood and cut them out and attached a 3x5 card that had a simple message on it. I was foolish and lost the card but I still have the hands. They were simply there to remind us, my sister and I, that he was there when he was needed.
I love his hands. They aren’t softest hands (which is fine with me, it’s that whole man’s man thing) but they aren’t too rough. They are thick, meaty I suppose. There are scars on the fingers and the nails are bitten done or rubbed down from manual labor. Some arthritis has set in and makes a couple of the fingers cramp in pain.
These are hands that held me as a baby. Hands that smoothed out my hair when I had a nightmare. Hands that guided mine as I tried to reel in the weeds I had caught. (To this day I hate fishing and told my dad that by throwing my rod into the river when I was six.) Hands that held me afloat as we swam at the local pool. Hands that held mine when I had stitches in and then taken out after crashing on my bike. Hands that steadied mine when I fired my first 9mm. (Still love to do that to this day!) Hands that taught me how to make a camp fire. Hands that held a Bible at Christmas and read the story of Jesus’ birth. Hands that clasped in prayer for countless hours over my wayward paths.
But this is where my moment comes in. I am happiest just slipping my hand into my dad’s hand and just walking beside him. When his hand wraps around mine I feel safe, secure, welcomed, and loved. He doesn’t squeeze my hand to keep me with him but it isn’t too loose so that I can slip away easily. It is, in a word, perfect.
I am sure one of these days I will have another moment but for right now this is it. There is nothing in this world that can make me happier than holding my dad’s hand.
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I really don't know why I am sentimental tonight. (It's like a white owl, rare but beautiful!)