Let Me Hold You

By Randa Chance

Gage is a two-year-old container of undiluted joy. Blonde and built like a diminutive linebacker, he races madly through his miniature world, oblivious to peer pressure, the stock market's volatility, or the prospect of world war. Sorrow has little effect on him. His crocodile tears last for an instant, and then they are gone. Like a tiny caped avenger, he streaks past in his diaper and cowboy boots, constantly moving, searching for exciting moments and shiny bugs.

He delights in throwing spaghetti in his sister's hair, pulling the heads off of her dolls, and stealing her lip gloss for his own personal use. He cocks his head to the side like a puppy and watches in fascinated stillness as an ant climbs over his foot. His happiness is complete when he wriggles his toes into his racecar slippers and has me wrap his Spiderman blanket around his body.

He is like a small tornado, whirling his way through the day, leaving a path of destruction wherever he goes. I happened to glance up the other day as he flew by me, pretending to be a dinosaur. The afternoon sun outlined a crouching, growling silhouette, and his hands flailed the air above his head in little claws as he hopped full speed ahead toward the light, roaring with all of his strength.

He loves ferociously. My husband took a break after wrestling with him the other day, and said, “Gage, you rock!” Gage stopped stock still for a moment and then shrieked at the top of his lungs with happiness. He whirled around, vehemently pointed both index fingers at Shane and yelled, “You rock too, Daddy!!!”

It is impossible to clean house unless he is asleep, yet, when I see him lying there like a rosy-cheeked angel, it is equally impossible to continue cleaning. My arms ache to hold him. His baby soft skin has yet to become weathered by the elements, and, when I hold him close, he feels like warm velvet. Needless to say, I am head over heels crazy about my little man.

Maybe it's the way he looks at me and creases his face into his “squishy grin,” a smile so wide and huge that the muscles in his cheeks force his eyes to squeeze shut. Or it could be when he crawls into my lap, buries his face in my neck in a fierce hug and whispers, “Now, dis here, dis is my woman.”

I think what really dissolves me into a puddle, though, is when he walks up to me, turns his face skyward, extends his arms, hands, and fingertips as straight and high as they can go, and in his low, tiny voice begs, “Mamma, lemme hold you. I wanna hold you.” His blue eyes implore, and he leans in close as his entire body pleads for me to pick him up.

The world can be in crisis negotiations, our church in an uproar, and every outside influence hammering at my soul, but when I hear those words, “Mamma, lemme hold you,” time stands still. Every position I hold loses importance, the pot bubbles over on the stove, and the unfinished project gets pushed away. My “mamma” radar hones in on the one who needs me. Nothing else matters.

I bend down toward him, and his eyebrows lose their concerned lines. I gently lift him up into my arms, and my heart melts. He burrows his face into the hollow of my neck between my collarbone and shoulders and relaxes against me with a shuddering, happy sigh. There is no pain, nothing to be tense over, or worried about. He is in my arms, and that is all he wants. Oh yeah--life is good.

As I held Gage the other day, I was struck with the amazing simplicity of his need for me. There are no strings attached; he just wants me for me. He needs to be near me, even if just for a few minutes. Those times strengthen his assurance that I love him and fulfill his need for closeness.

Oh, if only I would take the time to approach my Heavenly Father with the same abandon and lack of pretense! As I scurry through my day, He watches me tenderly through gentle eyes of love, smiling at my peculiarities and sometimes moved to tears by my infirmities. He loves me with a love beyond compare.

Every void, every place of need, every area of my life that lacks affirmation and acceptance, He longs to satisfy. I am His child, His beloved. Yet I neglect my precious time with Him and continue to run on, attempting to cover my empty soul with a mask of wit and sophistication. While I spend my life getting and pursuing and chasing, my Greatest Fulfillment silently waits for me, yearning to hold me, aching to wrap His arms around His child.

So often I forget to seek after those valuable, stolen moments, when I am His and He is mine. Then my strength fails. I crash, completely exhausted, wounded, and destitute. And that is the point where I remember again my deepest need of all - spending time with my Father.

Murrell Ewing so eloquently described it when he sang:

Sometimes the little boy in me

Wants to climb on my Father's knee

When the world outside gets too big for me

When the fear's too much for me to hide

And my finest dreams have almost died

He always understands me when I say

Hold me, hold me

I'm so afraid of the storm

Hold me, hold me

I'll be safe in my Father's arms

Oh God, let me approach you like a child who is unable to bear the weight of the world. Please hear my broken whisper as I hesitantly stumble toward you with arms outstretched as far as they can reach. “Lemme hold you, Jesus. My heart hurts. Please make it better.” Let me close my eyes and lean against your chest, wrapped in the warmth of your arms, knowing that I can trust you with my tears. Let me hear your soft, whispered reply, “I love you, daughter. You are beautiful and you are mine.”

Father, please help me remember that I can't live without my time with you. I need to hold you.

ninetyandnine.com

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Randa Chance and her husband, Shane, serve at HOPE Center in San Antonio, Texas, as assistant pastor. She is a legal assistant supergirl by day, crazy mom and wife by night, and loves writing, singing, and speaking when she has any spare moments. Although she does remember the Alamo, she has never visited it.