She’s always been one to hold my hand. This youngest little girl of mine happily slips her hand into mine when we’re out shopping together or running errands.
Her older siblings weren’t always so willing. Some of them let me take their hand as we crossed a busy parking lot, but tugged to let go once we hit the sidewalk. Sometimes they’d hold my hand but pulled to go a different direction. Or resisted altogether, wriggling to get free as I clamped down even more firmly.
But not my youngest. Though she’s now past the age where she needs to hold my hand, she still reaches for it. It’s a place of warm security and a sweet expression of love as her hand rests in mine.
I’ve often been like my older kids – tugging against God’s hand rather than resting in it. I’ve struggled to trust God’s hand, to trust that His direction is best.