At the tender age of eleven, my father and his three siblings were orphaned. His father died in the cold of winter. His mother fled for fear. The four children were left to fend for themselves. In a real drama of Survivor, my father set out the following spring to find work on farms as a hired hand. For 87 years now, he has dug out a living by the sweat of his brow. A few weeks ago, I sat by his hospital bed, holding his hand as he awakened from surgery. My father's hands are huge. If he ever gets you in his grip, you will never forget it. As I held his big, tough, calloused hands, I thought how they had provided and guided my life. I said a prayer of gratefulness that day.

You and I have a heavenly parent with huge hands. Sometimes we sing, “He's got the whole world in His hands." The sc…