His Hand

I saw His Hand.  I saw The Hand. The Hand of God outstretched before me.  The great, mighty, magnificent, tender, creased, soft, universal, all capable Hand.  

The Hand that swept darkness aside and let Light be exposed.  The skillful Hand that formed the stars in the sky and the sands of the shore.  The mighty Hand that pulled the mountains from the grips of the seas and set the galaxies spinning in order.  The swift Hand that caught the sparrow and frees the calf.  The loving Hand that formed Adam and fashioned Eve.  The angry Hand that cursed the snake and closed the way.  The willing Hand that took the nail and bore the wound.  The brilliant Hand that ascended on high and holds all things together.  

That Hand.  

His Hand.  

Extended and revealed in time before me.  

Before the child.  

The sad and frustrated little boy wrestles with his favorite sneaker.  Knotted and twisted.  Tangled and locked.  The harder he pulls the tighter it gets.  The more he tugs the bigger it grows.  

The Hand patiently waits, extended yet still.  

But the Hand is not seen for the knot is too big.  The Hand is up, the knot is down.  Help is above, frustration below.  Freedom on high, bondage down low.  

The Voice of the Hand begins to whisper.  

Let me try.  

But the boy can’t hear and hunches all the more.  

I can do that.  

But the noise of struggle can’t imagine it so.  

I’ve done this before.  

But his eyes remain fixed and his grasp more fierce.  

I’ve got this.  Would you let me?  

And with a tear and release, the pattern is broken.  

Can I have it?  Give it to Me.

Excerpts from the Red Velvet Journal were written during a dark season of the soul in 2010. It was a peculiar and marvelous time where I would place my pen on the page and start to write — having no idea what the next word might be. These “Holy Flows” came out with no corrections, no cross-outs, and no rewrites.