Hold my Hand

A couple days ago I took the boys into Danli to help me run some errands. I like the company, the boys like the snack I always buy them for being my "assistants".

In search of a place to make photocopies, I led the boys around the city. Running across streets and cutting through alleys, always with the boys on my heels. Until I looked down and there were Josue and Daniel, one with his small hand placed firmly in mine, the other with his arm looped through mine like a perfect gentleman leading a lady.

It's so natural now, to walk surrounded by kids. To walk with my wallet tucked into my armpit so that my hands are free for holding. To change "partners" at each stoplight. It's so natural.

Today I was journaling. I have a bunch of errands to run that will take me all over this city. I will be alone as I pick up my passport from immigration, change money at the Chinese supermarket, cash checks at the bank, buy groceries for the week, and stop at the fruit stand to stock up on produce.
I will be alone

But for now I only think about my journal, and my coffee.
And the words flow. Not from my mind, but from my heart.
I read what I have written: Hold my hand Father. I just want you to hold my hand.

...just hold my hand
There is something so comforting in holding someone's hand. Because all of a sudden instead of one, you are two. There is the knowledge that no matter how dark it is, there is another to help you see. No matter how windy it gets, there is someone to sustain you. No wonder I always seem to have someone slipping their hand into mine!

So often my job is to be the adult. To be the comfort, to be the eyes that see and the one that sustains. I wipe tears and calm fears and make smiles appear. I am the adult.

But sometimes I want to be the little girl. I want to slip my hand into one that is bigger than mine. I want to be led and comforted by another.
Sometimes, admits the chaos of life, it is comforting to have someone take us by the hand and lead us.

My prayer this morning is simple and free of clutter. It is not a prayer that comes from my mouth, but is rather the cries of the heart of a little girl: Hold my hand Abba, just hold my hand.