But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness…
Thinking back over the years of my life and the memories made with a man I called Dad, I’ve came to a new understanding of the 5th fruit listed in Galatians 5. And I’m not saying I have it right. Maybe I don’t. But here’s how I see it, at least at the moment.
I have a clear memory of an evening when I was a child, maybe 6 or 7 years old. Dad would have been at the peak of his physical strength. And he was strong. Big, thick arms. Huge, calloused hands. Those hand would just swallow mine when we shook. Maybe that had more to do with a feeling I had than the actual size of them. Like maybe there was a phycological effect that made them seem twice the size they actually were. But whatever the case, my hands have never been able to compete with the strength and capacity of his. I watched those hands do a lot of things. Countless hours pumping the grease gun and setting up the tool bar for cultivating corn. Changing water and wrestling pigs. Every day of hard labor adding a wrinkle or a callous. Every chore completed with a single-minded focus. “Lord, I love my family. Help me provide for them”.
Anyway, back to that evening I mentioned. We challenged dad to an arm-wrestling competition. I don’t remember all that transpired, but I do have a vivid picture in my mind of a particular moment. I called this a competition, but that’s also the problem, because it wasn’t. Dad didn’t have any competition when it came to arm wrestling with his children. I suppose we started on equal ground, but quickly realized that standard procedures weren’t going to win this deal. We ganged up on him, 2 or 3 of us against one of him. And we didn’t stay in the correct position either. We broke every rule there was. Now for the mental image. Dad’s arm is unmoving, perfectly upright. One of my siblings and I are using both arms, up on our knees, pushing against that hand with all we have. And it doesn’t move. That arm doesn’t seem affected at all. It remains solid and well anchored.
I think that’s the definition of gentleness. I am quite sure that dad had the power to overwhelm us in that wrestling match and settle the issue once and for all that he was the strongest. That is a tendency for us men. We want to be macho. To show our physical abilities and presence through some amazing demonstration of power. To be the one who saves the day. Heroes and warriors.
Sometimes we think of gentleness as soft, mild and easygoing. If gentleness were an animal, it would be a bunny, or a koala bear. I think gentleness is power controlled. That it is a quality that is even greater that power itself, that raw muscle and strength must bow to. Something that invites us to push against it. That lets us test it and feel and imagine its potential, but never hurts or overwhelms us. Something that gives us a glimpse of what could be but is combined with a greater power that keeps it restrained. Power withheld for our good. The greater the strength, the more capacity there is for gentleness.
That power can inspire a deep trust if we will let it. When you understand that your Father has big hands and strong arms, and that He can do things we only dream about. And you know that he channels that same power into providing for His children, and perhaps letting you see and experience enough of it to make you stand in awe and admiration, but withholding that power when He knows it would cause fear, hurt or make Him unapproachable.
I’m not quite finished… Gentleness does have a soft side. I watched my dad’s hands become weak. His skin became thin and fragile. I watched him struggle to get the fork to his mouth. I stood at the bedside and stroked his hands with my own as they went from warm to cold. And they were soft and quiet. So unbelievably soft and quiet. Yielding to the inevitable. Submitting to a Greater Power. Gentleness is that too. Even in death, gentleness showed itself. Quietly accepting what could not be changed. Power submitted. And it touched me.
The Peak of Inspiration 
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