A Hand to Reach For
Tonight before supper we went for an impromptu family hike. The weather was perfect, the sun was shining, the leaves were changing color. The transformation in our kids was dramatic: they went from whining and arguing on the car ride to the nature preserve to laughing and skipping down the trails. We all needed that bit of nature, that little time away.
We walked along comfortably chatting as the kids blazed a trail in front of us. We looked at trees and bugs, and voted on which trails to take. We stopped on a dock to look for fish and frogs. The step up to the dock was high for me. The boys managed to jump off before setting back out on the trail. Cora reached the edge of the dock, glanced over the edge, and without even looking up held out her little hand and instinctively reached for mine. It was there waiting for her. She hopped off the dock and set off behind the boys, but I was left to stop and consider what had just happened.
She hadn't hesitated for a second before reaching out, hadn't even stopped to wonder if my hand would be there waiting. Our hands were always there when she needed them, and the thought that they might not be wasn't even a consideration. It was such a simple little thing, and yet it spoke volumes.
At the exact same moment, my heart broke. How many little hands have reached out and not found a hand waiting to help? Our lives have collided recently with so many babies and children who are stretching out little hands only to turn up empty. Even as I rejoiced and breathed a little prayer of thanksgiving that Cora knew she would always have my hand, I grieved and prayed for the children all around us who would never know that security.
It was a layered moment, because even as I contemplated these things, another meaning was there. How often have I instinctively reached out my hand, seeking the help I knew and never doubted would be there? Certainly I've reached out countless times in these past months of transition. And amazingly, the Hand I've reached for has always been there, strong, secure, waiting to lift me down off the ledge. It's no small thing.
We walked along comfortably chatting as the kids blazed a trail in front of us. We looked at trees and bugs, and voted on which trails to take. We stopped on a dock to look for fish and frogs. The step up to the dock was high for me. The boys managed to jump off before setting back out on the trail. Cora reached the edge of the dock, glanced over the edge, and without even looking up held out her little hand and instinctively reached for mine. It was there waiting for her. She hopped off the dock and set off behind the boys, but I was left to stop and consider what had just happened.
She hadn't hesitated for a second before reaching out, hadn't even stopped to wonder if my hand would be there waiting. Our hands were always there when she needed them, and the thought that they might not be wasn't even a consideration. It was such a simple little thing, and yet it spoke volumes.
At the exact same moment, my heart broke. How many little hands have reached out and not found a hand waiting to help? Our lives have collided recently with so many babies and children who are stretching out little hands only to turn up empty. Even as I rejoiced and breathed a little prayer of thanksgiving that Cora knew she would always have my hand, I grieved and prayed for the children all around us who would never know that security.
It was a layered moment, because even as I contemplated these things, another meaning was there. How often have I instinctively reached out my hand, seeking the help I knew and never doubted would be there? Certainly I've reached out countless times in these past months of transition. And amazingly, the Hand I've reached for has always been there, strong, secure, waiting to lift me down off the ledge. It's no small thing.
