In His Hands


“Mommy, when you were a little girl, I was nowhere.”  (My 5-year-old granddaughter to her mother.)

“That’s true.  God hadn’t made you yet.”

“Yeah . . .  I was in His hands.”

In His hands.  Another lesson from the lips of a child.

In His hands.  A place I woke up thinking about this morning.  A place I need to be.  A place I am, actually, all the time.  But I need reminding.

I need reminding when life feels uncertain.  When I feel unsteady.  When other people’s hands break away—or were never there in the first place.

When I am scared, when I am lonely, when I am uncertain of the next step, when life feels wobbly, when I can’t seem to see farther than 6” in front of my face . . . what do God’s hands do for me?

These huge, strong hands that shaped and formed me from the beginning—when I was “nowhere.”  These warm, strong hands hold me.  Guide me. Steady me.  Lead me.  Mold me.  Lift me.

The same granddaughter, yesterday, in Belfast, Northern Ireland, where we are visiting, comes running in from the circle where she’s been riding her bike with her friends.  She’s crying inconsolably.

“What’s wrong, Gabriella?”

“I want to do something.  But I can’t.  Because I’m so scared.”

Warm Nana hands reach out and lift her to my lap.  Loving arms enfold her while she pours out her story of wanting to take the “stabilizers” (training wheels) off her bike but being too scared . . .  She cries and talks and cries and talks . . . And then she runs back out to Daddy’s hands to give it another try.

I think of the hands of God.  And how we—and our children—need to be reminded of them.  I hope you feel His grip today.