She can't quite reach out on purpose. But she is trying. Her stretched out fingers were ready to grasp whatever her little palm landed upon.
This time it's my own hand. Mama. She stretches them toward me, eyes brimming with delight when she hits her target. She rests them there. For the moment. Long enough to take the shot.
I capture a memory but she's captured my heart.
So it is with my Lord. My uncoordinated efforts to trust him often surprise me when a target lands in my hand. To my delight, I find it is no less than the palm of his own hand reaching out for me. Age may have creased more lines in my skin, but this heart brims with telling gratitude.
In him I rest secure. In him I find peace. In him, I find the power of my own faith come alive with hope. In him, my palms are raised up, ever reaching out for the one Who has captured me.
Holding Mama and baby… quieting our souls together.