Jesus is holding my hand

There was a time when I put my hand into that of my parent’s. Either willingly because I felt scared or in need of guidance, or unwillingly, when they grabbed my hand before I could run headlong into danger.

Sometimes it was a light grasp, but other times saw me wince at the tight grip they used.

Walking with Teddy reminds me of this because I recognise in him all those reactions to a handhold. He is quick to reach up when steps need to be negotiated. He holds out his hand to me when he wants me to join him on the floor to do a puzzle. He comes quickly to my side and grabs my hand when he’s unsure of those big kids at Playgroup.  But he often resists if I tell him I need to hold his hand when we’re going for a walk. Then he defiantly clasps both hands behind his back and saunters, as if to say, I don’t need your help.

Lately I have imagined that Jesus is holding my hand. It’s a great comfort to know that it’s not reliant on me reaching up for his hand; he will have a hold of me even when I defiantly believe I can deal with this situation on my own. Sometimes my hand may go limp in his, but his grip is firm and sure.

Like a child, I may try to pull back. I may even try to stand still, afraid to go on. But Jesus is leading me, he is a half a step ahead of me, and my hand is in his. I can’t do much else than tag along with him.