by Alanna
I type this at the kitchen table, and next to me stands baby
girl, holding on to the chair with two hands.
When she’s brave she only uses one.
She sticks out her tongue and focuses, her whole body wobbling as she
balances on tiptoes. Sometimes she’s not
even standing up straight, her little bottom sticking out. She first started pulling herself up about a
month ago. I used to be scared, hovering
not too far away. Her knees cave inward,
her dark curly head wobbles from side to side and looks as if it will pull her
whole body down with it. She is so very
unsteady. And I’m protective, and it
used to scare me. Our hard wood floors
beneath her. But now I wash dishes in
the kitchen while she stands at the couch, still shaking unsteady and smiling
at me. Because although it appears
precarious to me, I could count the times on one hand that she’s fallen. She somehow always manages to grab on to
something as she’s tipping, or she sits herself down hard. She knows how to get down without hurting
herself. In some ways, I see me in
her. So very unsteady. I’m the one, tentatively, pulling myself back
up after I’m down again. One more bad
attitude, grumpy tears springing to my eyes when baby girl wakes up from
daddy’s drill and I don’t get to nap. My
ugly self gnaws at me some days. And I’m
afraid to stand, afraid to try. Because
sometimes my Christian walk seems so very unsteady. I stand on tiptoes on grace, rather than
letting my feet rest solid. I don’t
trust. But somehow He holds me. And miracle of miracles, I don’t fall to
crack my head on the hard floor.
Miracle- unsteady me, held up by grace.
Sinful me, held up by His strong arms.
So I don’t want to fear. If my
faith and my love and my patience are going to be lacking, I want to at least
trust that He is at work in me. That
someday me and baby girl will both stand more steady. She reminds me to keep trying, and to smile in
the midst of these attempts. Thanks to
our good Father, we are both held up by grace.
