I watched an old friend playing with his son in the garden.
Over and over again, he tossed the boy in the air and caught him. The response each time: a gurgling belly laugh and demands for "More! Again!"
I watched them, and thought how much fun the little boy was having.
Wondered whether he realises what a privilege it is, being able to do nothing but share a moment of delight with one's father.
Reflected on how the game is only fun, and only goes on, because my friend catches his son every time. Dropping him, by accident or on purpose (and yes, I've known that kind of parent, too), is simply not an option.
I stitched this a few weeks ago, as an exercise in refreshing two skills that had begun to wane: embroidery; and the word I set out to embroider.
My earlier stitches were uncertain and uneven, but by the time I reached that last "t" I knew where the needle should go and how tight I needed to pull. The motion and skill had been dormant all these creativity-less years; I only needed to awaken it. So, too, with trust. Something I thought I had been doing, and doing well, for years... and it turned out my stitches had been shaky in that department, too.
I sewed that last stitch at least a month ago, but I feel as though the work was only completed this past weekend, across the country in my friend's garden. Watching as a toddler exulted in the secure arms of his father, I was reminded that I have a trustworthy father, too. One whose presence I
delight to be in. One who is infinitely
infallible. One who also loves to toss me up and watch me
soar.
And whose
arms are there to catch me, every single time.
