His stretching four-year-old frame climbs into his seat. Damp hands reach out to find mine. Shock sweeps passed as I realize I didn’t have to remind him today.
I don’t recall holding hands at the dinner table growing up. We prayed, but I don’t remember the hand holding. Not sure how we instigated it here, but I like it. The symbolism of joining together, praying in agreement. The removal of temptation to grab food before we’re done. Yes, I enjoy this moment each day.
Normally, my husband will pray first followed by my son if he feels so inclined. Not today.
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I have a confession to make. I would like to be perfect before God uses me for anything. That way, He’s not embarrassed. I’m not embarrassed. Of course, then He would never be able to use me this side of heaven. I am not and will not be perfect. And yet, the desire to be is so often still there.
Teary-eyed and heavy-hearted, I tried to convince the Lord one morning He really should call it quits on me. “Listen. I am such a mess. Such. A. Mess. Maybe You just shouldn’t use me anymore, okay? Maybe You should find someone who has it more together or wait until I have it more together.
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