Opening my hands

There are times God is talking to me. Through a bull horn. Over a microphone. And I still have my fingers in my ears, screaming "lalalalalalalalalalaala!" as loud as I can. Doesn't work. I still hear Him.

"Open your hands."

It is simple really. I am clutching - clutching my life, my work, my routine, my everything. I am hanging on for dear life and I know it isn't healthy. I also know I am being asked to let go.

"Open your hands."

I can intellectualize my situation and say that I know God cannot give me more if my fist is tightly closed. I know that God didn't bring me to this place because I earned it, I deserve it, or I am smart enough to keep it. God gave it because it was in His pleasure and He alone wanted me here.

"Open your hands."

What if He asks me to give up something painful? What if I have to give up my home? Or my children? Or my husband? What if something tragic happens?

"Open your hands."

Like a child with a toy that needs fixed, I desperately don't want to give it up to the patiently waiting grown up with the scary looking screw driver. I want it to be better by magic. I want it to fix itself.

"Open your hands."

The terror that grips me in the uncertainty that is my life out here in the real world is palpable. I cannot stop the hamster wheel to breathe... Until I am exhausted. I am exhausted. My hands are relaxing. Not because I have chosen obedience. My hands are opening because I cannot squeeze them shut anymore.

I cannot write that open hands have been blessed just yet. I can only say that I am trying to keep them open. I recover strength and know that I can shut them again at any moment. Sometimes I look down and realize I have shut them again, without conscious effort. Muscle memory. I am working to train another muscle. My faith muscle.

"Open your hands."