When arms were short and feet pattered rather than clomped, my children would often look to me. To carry. Them.
Weariness or a tumble would provoke my arms to wrap them tight. Oh, how they would cling. To me.
When illness struck, I would lace my limbs about theirs, soothing, moving them to a spot more comfortable. If weakness threatened these fruits of mine, I would lift them, with arms strong, to help.
Even when these loves of mine stretched taller than I, even then, I would wrap them in my arms, now weaker, to remind them of my sustaining love. For them. All they need do, was lean closer. And they could know. My heart.
As I lay upon my bed, too full of aches in my skin, my bones, too sick to do other, I am reminded. Of arms stronger. Of a Father's love, which carries me, even now, in my bed.
"Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you." Isaiah 46:4
Though I have been laying upon this bed for days now, my mind knows this is temporary, even if my body does not. Shingles will soon pass. In my weakness, I remember others. Whose pain has lasted, years. Of friend's nephew, body crushed, now paralyzed. Another whose heart is crushed with disappointment. A third whose very life seems paralyzed.
And I am strangely comforted. Because I know. Of limbs, wrapping. Holding tight. Soothing.
And so I pray, they will lean closer. Cling with abandon. That they could be upheld. And know.
Of a Father's love, which carries. Them.