My memories are spotty of the event. The first part has clarity, but the second is like viewing through torrential rain—colors and blobs. However, there’s one thing I cannot forget. It hurt.
I was three years old, fearless.
So, when my parents took me to the grocery, I saw no sense in waiting for them to unload the baby and lock the car. I knew where the store was, where the doors were. I was sure I could grab a cart to help. No holding me back.
I ran barefoot across the parking lot before my mother could grab my hand.
There was a problem—I know you’ve spotted several, but this was a doozy. I had yet to learn to read.
Having navigated the parking lot, I arrived at the doors. Plural. There was an IN door and an OUT door. I knew no difference.
The lady heading for the OUT door, arms full of purchases, couldn’t see the fearless, barefoot child on the other side. She stepped onto the automating mat. The door opened.
Onto my bare toes.
Not even my Superman Daddy could lift that door off my big toe.
After assistance from the fire department, Daddy held me as they bandaged my toe. For a week I had to take my bath with my foot dangling from the tub. Today a ridge runs down the center of that toe nail.
My reminder to hold hands.
There are all kinds of reasons to hold hands. Mostly it is a loving gesture. One of security and protection, drawing us closer to the person at the other end of that hand. We hold hands when we cross the street, when we want to share comfort, when we are afraid, when teaching and learning, when we dance, when we pray. Holding hands brings us together.
So it shouldn’t be a surprise that God holds our hands for many reasons.