A hand

Clip 1. His little legs teeter and wobble as he makes his way across the grass. He pauses, regains balance, and resumes his mission toward the gravel. He loves rocks.

As he approaches the edge of the lawn, he stops but keeps looking at his goal. His left arm shoots up, palm open. He wants me to hold his hand while he transitions to the pavement.

Clip 2. This week I had day-surgery to remove two large kidney stones. As the general anesthetic wore off, the nurse kindly stated, “Okay, it’s time to get you up walking” and then proceeded to give me instructions on how to do so.

“Scoot your bottom to the side of the bed and drop your legs over the edge. Now sit there for a few minutes until you get your bearings.”

I followed orders.  When the spinning room slowed to an agreeable pace, I told her I was ready to carry on. “Okay. Stand slowly and hold my arm. When you’re upright, hold onto the IV pole for balance. I’ll walk right beside you to the bathroom. Let me know if you’re feeling dizzy or light-headed.”

And off we went at a blistering snail’s pace, with me relearning how to walk again, after 50 years.

Clip 3. Our grandson is not quite 18-months old and explores his ever-increasing world, eager to try new things, and makes clear when he can do it all. by. himself. I admire his tenacity to keep getting up after lawn divots trip him, to persist with poking the squirming noodle until it’s on his fork, and climbing into the dry tub fully dressed to remind me of his love for baths. He’s becoming his own little person.

And, he also knows when to ask for –and receive – help.

My spirit is wired toward independence and toughing it out alone. Thankfully, God and life have continued to teach me the power of giving and receiving help. There is healing in community where one assists another by providing meals, phoning to encourage, praying faithfully. 

But it’s difficult to support one another if we aren’t willing to be open and vulnerable about our need. 

How might you reach your hand out today to negotiate a bumpy lawn’s edge, or post-anesthetic daze? 
​
With love and gratitude,
Shelaine