Holding Hands

There is nothing like a fresh, chubby little hand reaching into my brown, veiny used one.

This week I walked with my friend's little 18 month old boy down our street to the park and back.

Our street is torn up.  A new water main is going in, many feet down.  There are mountains of dirt, bumps, and ridges galore.  For a one and a half year old, it is a serious trek.

He was so proud of the smooth sidewalked parts.  Letting go of my hand he cruised along confidently.  I waited for the next challenge, making sure I was close when he was ready for my hand.  He predictably sought my steadying when the tricky parts came.  And I loved it.

He's just like me.  Confidently heading out on my own, always knowing Jesus is there when I need Him.  It's not wrong.  Just not complete.

There are times now, with my older children; thirteen, eleven, nine, seven, and five, when one will come frolicking, sneaking, or laughing up to me and take my hand.  Not for help, just for love.

They're like me, too.  Learning the joy of companionship.  Choosing to be with Jesus even when I'm not in desperate straits.  I'm slowly learning to reach for Jesus because of love.