Hands

When she was born, the first thing I did was count my daughter's fingers. I remember looking at her tiny hands, counting each little digit, and being in awe of God's power to create life.

Nowadays, I love to feel her grasp my hand as we walk together. She can only grasp two fingers now but I know those fingers will elongate and those palms will grow wider. These same little hands will some day learn to write, pet the cat with a lighter hand, and, hopefully, play a musical instrument. They'll grow stronger and learn to grasp a baseball or hockey stick, to cook and clean, and to comfort or congratulate a friend. And, when my daughter goes off to college, I know those hands will someday wave good-bye.

So for now, I'll cherish each moment she grasps two of my fingers and says, "Let's run!" I'll drink in every moment she places a hand on mine as we read a book or watch TV. I'll burn into memory every time she places her hands on my cheeks and smiles.

I'll hold on to those pudgy little fingers and those dimpled hands for as long as she'll let me. Sadly, I know, it won't be long enough for me.