Busy morning. Five kids up early, husband gone to class, Papa over to watch kids, Mr. C to eye doctor appointment. I'm exhausted. I'm late. Before our eyes are usually opened for the day, Mr. C has his examined. Three-year-olds and ophthalmologists don't necessarily mix, but Mr. C is a pro. He gets a sticker and a Dum-Dum, and then we go to the store and buy him the big plastic shovel he's "always" wanted.
We drive. I will myself to pass the Krispy Kreme. Pass the Krispy Kreme. Pass the Krispy Kreme. Drat that red donut light. I can resist a donut for a dollar, but I'm too frugal (is that an excuse?) to resist a free one. And then I don't resist the one for a dollar, either. Mr. C is delighted by a donut date, but I'm stuck on the fact that I fell to temptation. Again.
We drive. Straight down 28th street. I'm disgusted by some of the businesses we pass. They remind me of the fallen world I live in, one in which selfish pleasure is valued more highly than love and trust and Godliness, and I long for Home. For perfection. I'm worn down, and my enemy attacks. Sadness and despair fill me.
Buying flowers, I see them as tasks to be fulfilled, items to be planted. Front yard. Back yard. Patio. Planters. Coordinating colors. I fail to see them for what they truly are; tiny expressions of God's creativity. His love. Miniature blessings to brighten my life on this earth. And for the moment, because I'm wrapped up in myself, they're lost on me. And I wonder. How many blessings pass me by? How many do I miss while I'm fixed on despair?
The baby screams. And he screams. And he screams. And he will not stop. He's hungry. He's tired. He's hot and sweaty. He longs to be freed from his trials of heat and hunger and exhaustion. But more than that, he longs to be comforted and protected and cared for. And while I don't instantly care for all his needs, don't in that moment remove all the trials from his life, I offer him my hand. He grabs it with two little fists, one claiming pinkie, one claiming thumb, and holds on for dear life. And he is comforted.
Holding my hand is all it takes for my baby to be comforted.
And the tiny thought I had, the tiny yet enormous thought that sent rays of sun shining into my darkness, was this:
What if I held onto God's hand as if my very life depended on it? What if I clung to Him, with my two little fists claiming pinkie and thumb? My trials would not disappear, my disappointments would not vanish, but if I always held His hand, I would always be comforted.
Holding His hand is all it's ever taken for me to be comforted.
So when did I let go and start screaming again? When did I lose my grip and slip away? His hand is always there, offering comfort, offering help, so why did I stop holding on? Why, when I need Him so badly? Why?
I don't know. I just don't know. But right now I'm choosing again to grab His hand with my two little fists, claiming pinkie and thumb and every promise from His Word. And this time I'm not letting go. I'm through screaming. I'm through with despair. This time I'm holding on for dear life.
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