Stairs and the Hand of God

I have fear issues with stairs. And if you know some of my family history, you'll know why. Over a decade ago, my mom took a really, really bad fall down a flight of stairs, breaking both feet and crushing the bones in her right heel. My sister and I were in the house when it happened. And while, by the grace of God, she is fine today, and while we are even able to see the ways God used that accident for good, the sheer awfulness of that moment will probably never leave any of us entirely, this side of heaven. Fast forward some eight years later, to the time when I forgot to latch the baby gate in our 3rd floor attic/playroom and, preoccupied with e-mail, heard my precious 9-month old Ellie tumble down some dozen wooden stairs. She, by the grace of God, was absolutely fine, too (I'll save the details of that story for another day). Even Paul's mom, Judy, has her own story of a bad fall down the stairs many years ago, and foot problems that linger to this day as a result. So I have a healthy (okay, maybe even a bit neurotic) fear of stairs.

God, in his strange mercy, has our family in an old, beautiful Richmond row house. Which I love, very much. But which is pretty much made up entirely of stairs. Which my three year old and I traipse up and down a dozen times every day, easy. And much of the time, I hold her hand, FIRMLY. What can I say? She's my first, and so far only, child, and I don't like stairs so much.  Plus, she's three, and at least once a week I catch her and keep her from tumbling down. I'm not really even that defensive about it. I figure I give her plenty of freedom to stretch her wings in other ways. It is what it is; I am who I am (and her dad has started tossing her the ball as she sits on them to give her confidence - thank God for dads, is all I can say:-).

Yesterday morning, my women's Bible Study looked at Psalm 73, of Asaph. At the end of his psalm, after pouring out all his bitterness and fear and hatred before God (you know, the part that always makes us a little nervous to read out loud), after finally coming to the point where he was ready to go in and confess and pour out his heart among God's people, he moves into that part of the Psalm we like to quote,

²³Yet I am always with you;
   you hold me by my right hand.
²⁴ You guide me with your counsel,
   and afterward you will take me into glory.
²⁵ Whom have I in heaven but you?
   And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
²⁶ My flesh and my heart may fail,
   but God is the strength of my heart
   and my portion forever.

So this whole blog entry, all this meandering about row houses and tumbling down stairs, is pretty much just to say that I really like that part in verse 23. "Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand." Because today, when I felt Ellie's warm, sweet hand in mine a million little times, I kept thinking about how God holds my hand. My right hand, even. My "strong" one. When I hold Ellie's, it's often my right to her left, since my right hand is stronger and more able to keep her from falling. But even God's left hand (sorry lefties, it's just an analogy:), is SO much stronger than my right hand and able to keep me from falling.

And also, it's about the sweetest thing in the world, isn't it? Don't your remember the first time a boy held your hand? Or when your baby's tiny fist caught a death grip on your finger? Isn't it one of the most tender, intimate things anyone can do?  I mean, it's one thing to sing "He's got the whole world in His hands" - reassuring and true as that is, how much sweeter still that I can hold onto the promise that He holds my hand? And as much love and concern as I feel for my sweet, beautiful Ellie when she clings tightly to me (or pushes me away:), how much more does my God love and long to care for me?

Just something to think about the next time you walk down the stairs:-)...