I see a little hand in the silhouette of the night,
it holds my hand with a bond ever so tight of five little fingers,
that grasp my hand hoping that her daddy holds her healing in his hand.

One little hand wrapped around my pointer finger,
a thousand thoughts running through my head,
why God would you let my little one suffer?
Are you to busy to hear her cry or mine?
Are you to weak to heal her this one time?
Are you not good enough to answer this sinner’s cry?

The night is dark and there is no thunderous answer,
nor moon light to add joyful rays to dance about the room
that might make somber moods happy again. Only darkness looms.

I am left speechless at the pain of my own sick child.
Childish sorrow that should never be.

Oh how pain attempts to draw me in to its soulless layer of doubt.
Cunning attempts to draw me in to that dark matter.
Tempting to engulf my weary senses that old enemy beckons me again.

In that dark room five little fingers cling to my finger,
waking me from my self,
not just a child but MY CHILD reaches out to me.
Her pain is engulfed if only but for moments in my love.
The intricate webbing of love and sorrow mingle to make a unseen bond
that the flames of hell cannot touch and illuminate the heart of God.

Here is God in a child’s room, here is the Father.

He knows what it is like to feel so helpless and vulnerable.
Tears from falls, cries of pain, watching sicknesses and accidents occur,
yet he never steps in for he knows all these things must sorrowfully be.

How many times did he watch his OWN CHILD suffer so terribly?
How many times did he want and desire to hold his child’s hand?
How did he feel watching a adopted father’s hand hold his child?
How many times did he long to have his son hold his hand in those moments that it could not physically be there?

My mortal doubts flee again as I hold the hand of my child and am thankful that their is goodness in a Father’s hand to let me hold my child who also thankfully is in the Father’s hand.