My hand

     Looking at my hand, my ordinary,  human hand, there are so many things that come to mind. This hand has held my husband's hand, as a nervous teen. Later it held his hand as we said sacred vows. It held our firstborn, wet from my womb, in awe of everything.  This hand has held the hand of children learning to walk. Hugged teens who are learning to fly. It has made countless meals for a lot of people. It has caressed, soothed, and cared for loved ones. It has been used in prayer for others and myself. It has been used in anger, to make a point, or even to strike, much to my shame. It has been there for as long as my memories exist. 

     This hand has five fingers. I learned to count to five on this hand, many, many moons ago. I learned fingerplays and songs, using this hand.  I learned that five is a relatively small number, in our large world. 

I never imagined, never, that I would one day be counting my angel children. 

     Oh, I know they aren't really angels, these little ones of mine who never drew a breath on this Earth. Angels are only spiritual, with no corporal bodies. Our children, from their very nanosecond of becoming, are corporal. They are separate yet within us. They require us, their mothers, to sustain them. The most vulnerable of the vulnerable. 

     My hand is full. Five fingers count the five children that have stayed here only long enough for us to say hello. Left too soon to really say goodbye. How can a mother really ever say goodbye? How can a Christian ever say goodbye and believe it is finite?

     You see, looking at my hand I am reminded, reminded of more than sorrow. I am reminded that HE has us in the palm of HIS hand. That we are sheltered there, even when it seems that we are in the midst of the tempest.