Take My Hand

​The other morning I woke up a bit later than usual, which meant that I ended up walking my dog, Hank, a little later than usual. Instead of it being dark and quiet like it usually is when we walk, the sun was up and the streets were alive with people driving to work, garbage trucks running their routes and, of course, school buses shuttling children to school.

On part of our regular morning walk route there is a school bus stop with a rather large number of children who get on the bus there. As Hank and I approached this bus stop along a busier thoroughfare in town, I noticed a mother who had just gotten out of her vehicle. She was parked along the street on the opposite side of the road from the bus stop, and had gone around the back side of her SUV to open the rear passenger door. Out slid her daughter–or who I presumed to be her daughter. 

The little girl was tugging on her backpack that appeared to have fallen between the seats. Just as her mother was bending down to help free the pack, the little girl gave it one final tug on her own and the bag was freed. She promptly flung it onto her back and slid her arms in the straps, then appeared to look up at her mother’s face. In one motion, the girl’s mother closed the door of her vehicle and dropped her hand. Her daughter’s hand easily found hers, and mother began guiding daughter around the vehicle to the street’s edge.

In tandem, the two looked both ways–up and down the street–with almost exaggerated motions of their heads. It appeared to me that the little girl was still learning to be aware of her surroundings, so everything her mother did was a bit more pronounced in an effort to get the point across. Then, with one last look both ways, the little girl’s mother guided her across the busy street. They didn’t run. They didn’t even look hurried. The little girl never seemed to hesitate or quicken her steps. They simply moved–together–until they safely reached the other side.

As Hank and I continued to walk I found myself wondering why the scene had caught my attention. I mean, presumably, it was just a parent and a child, doing fairly routine parent and child stuff, right? But maybe that is what was so attention-grabbing about it for me. Could our lives together really be as simple as that? 

I suppose they can be, I just don’t know that they always are. If I’m being honest, I don’t know the last time I was content to simply get to the other side of whatever I was facing. I’ve been in a hurry to achieve success (whatever that is). I’ve been in a hurry to reach the day when I finally have everything figured out (I’m still waiting on that day). I’ve been in a hurry to reach my goal weight, to stop missing the people I love who have died, to be more secure in my relationships, my job, and my finances. I’ve twisted, I’ve contorted, I’ve broken a sweat–literally and metaphorically–all to reach some magical day or feeling or number that I think will finally make me happy or content or…something. And I can’t help but wonder if you have too.
I don’t know about you, but with all of that hurrying and twisting and contorting, I’m fairly certain I’ve missed a lot of outstretched hands along the way–hands that were desperate to find another hand to hold during a difficult time–hands that sought to be a comfort to me as I have struggled. 

In the traditional language of the Lord’s Prayer, we say the words, “Thy kingdom come.” Richard Rohr points out, “to pray and actually mean ‘Thy kingdom come,’ we must also be able to say, ‘my kingdoms go.’” And I can’t help but wonder if what was striking about the mother and her child crossing the street that day was that they offered me a glimpse of what it looks like when God’s kingdom comes and our kingdoms go. 

Maybe God’s kingdom comes every time we drop our personal agendas long enough to care about another–ensuring that we both safely reach the other side of whatever road we’re walking. Maybe God’s kingdom comes through a steady rhythm of hands offered and hands taken. Maybe God’s kingdom comes in the blessed reassurance our presence offers another–that we can do what frightens us, that we can become what we are not yet, that we can make it through what we think will certainly kill us. Maybe it’s as hard as all that…but maybe it’s as simple as all that too?

So this week, may our prayer each day be, “Thy kingdom come, and my kingdoms go,” and may that prayer free us to see more clearly the hands reaching out toward us–waiting to entangle their fingers with ours–as we all learn to simply move toward the other side together–whatever the “other side” is for each of us.

Learning to let my kingdoms go with you,
Pr. Melissa

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