Holding Hands
This evening, I walked across a soccer field hand-in-hand with Josiah, age seven. Autumn twilight, with a lovely breeze. Josiah was prattling away to me about …. I don’t remember. (He talks about a lot of things during the span of one day!) I do know that he enjoyed being with his mom and telling her the details of his life.
I had to brush the hair out of my eyes. But I found I didn’t want to let go of that little hand. He was really holding on, not tightly, but not limply either. And I didn’t want him to have to let go. Ever. I let myself just enjoy the feel of that hand in mine.
What a privilege to be the big hand that he puts his little hand into. To be the one he can talk to about everything. I want to walk across field after field with him, trusting, by my side.
Oh, yes. Josiah was adopted.
I think now of his birth mother. She didn’t have the joy of feeling that hand in hers this evening, and hearing his lisping voice tell her about the intimate details of his life. She didn’t hear him pipe up “Can I come, too?” when I was headed off to the soccer field to pick up his brother.
God, please bless her.
September 24th, 2007 at 11:47 am
I just read your story and had to let you know as a Mom myself, how beautiful I thought it was. Your little boy and the rest of your family is blessed to have you articulate your feelings so well. We hope to be blessed with an adoptive son in the future as well.
Thank you for sharing your story,
Kristina