It feels like a horror movie scene. A glass filled with grape juice has slipped out of your grasp, aimed for the white carpet below. Your hands fumble, hoping to catch it. You can’t.
That awkward moment when you step and trip over the invisible microscopic hurdle. You stumble, hoping to regain your footing before anyone sees you. Praying that your flailing arms looks worse in your imagination than in reality.
Grasping is never quite having a firm hold on something. You manage to get your fingers around it, but it’s not yet secure.
Yet grasping has impact. Ask the nameless woman in the Bible who spent many secluded years with a hemorrhage. She knew that there was healing just by touching Jesus. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t even grab his pinky toe. The edge of his garment was all her fingers grazed. She’s etched in history because of her miraculous healing.
God has a firm hold. His hands are so ginourmous that nothing falls out. There are no gaps, no skids. We can’t teeter on the edge where a breeze might blow us over. His hold, His grip is firm.
Even when we’ve tried to rappel down the side, grasping at our own self-made ropes, His hold is so strong. So firm.
So secure.
