Last month we took my parents and the kids to D.C. for the day. My little sister Olivia has always been my shadow. She insisted on holding my hand the whole day and clinging to me non-stop. She is eight-years-old and at that age when life still seems so bright and full of fun to be had. Her tiny hand wrapped around mine every chance she got and Matt captured it for me. It's those small moments that make the biggest impact on me. I walked around with Olivia thinking I was offering her safety from the cars on the street and tourists that she was bound to run into. The day wasn't anything spectacular other than the simple fact of spending it with family. Olivia was at my side all day--small and enthusiastically willing to be with me. Her cheesy kid jokes and unceasing giggles made me smile. The day began, photos were taken, and then it was over.
Here I sit about a month after their visit and I am overwhelmed by a new insight. A simple black and white photo is illuminated by the dull light of the laptop screen and I am...surprised. I'm surprised that I didn't understand sooner. I'm surprised that a kid can teach me a lesson. I'm surprised that we often overlook the smallest things and just excuse them away as "the norm". We do, though. The sun rises, we get dressed, we breathe through another day, and we cover up at night in the same bed without feeling as if anything has changed.
I looked at this photo today and I realized something. Olivia wasn't holding my hand to be protected; she wanted to be with me. This may seem like the most mundane thing to write about. Hang with me a few more minutes, though. Now I didn't hold Olivia's hand because I simply wanted to be with her, but I did it out of instinct to protect her. So, what's the big deal? We held hands the entire day for two totally different reasons. In the Smithsonian, I didn't want her running into the crowd so I held onto her. At the same time, she wanted to show me something so she held onto me and guided me through the crowd to each exibit. Two different perspectives. Two motives. One day. One act.
I see now what I didn't see that day--faith. It's something that on my best days I don't have much of. I used to feel guilty for that--not having enough faith because that's a core need in Christianity. Cliche' sayings follow us--"keeping the faith" "living the Christian faith". Then, life happened and God showed me something that no Christian had ever bothered showing me before--that faith isn't some polished and perfect state of being. It's raw, it's sometimes tattered and torn; almost always minimal. But small faith is enough for God to work with. It's enough to carry me from day to day.
In every one of my five doctor's appointments this month I have walked in holding onto faith. I have held on to faith as my faith has grown smaller and medical records have grown thicker. This is no noble thing. My faith often rests within me as some wilting flower--it's not pretty, but it is deeply rooted in something other than myself. At the end of the day, I have to open my hands in faith, no matter how small, to God's provision. He knows. He holds me to love me and I often hold onto him because I am fearful and uncertain just as I was with Olivia. Two different perspectives. Two motives. One day. One act. He holds me.
Small kids often teach big lessons to those of us that have grown too old to open our eyes to possibility. We've become jaded and often times have lost faith. When I see this photo of Olivia holding my hand--I see faith holding on to me because Olivia's middle name is Faith. Just like Olivia, God clings to me simply because he wants to and I hold on tightly because I know I need to.
Different perspectives and motives? Maybe, but Olivia would say that what mattered to her most that day was being together hand-in-hand and facing the unknown together.
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