Holding My Hand

Child holding father's hand
Copyrighted, uh, not by me. I’ll remove it if you like.

Today is Day Three of my standing. Which I think is a record for the past few weeks.

I’m reminded how much I’ve come to depend on this as a narcotic. My anxiety level has been through the roof the past day or two. Depression gnaws at my heels. All the thoughts and issues I don’t want to face, that I expend such effort in trying to escape, are once again before me. The cure so often seems worse than the disease. At least in the hole, I was holding it together. I was peacefully numb, oblivious to all the things I was letting fall down around me.

It would be so easy to fall again, to let myself go again. A voice — the Accuser — tells me it will just be a matter of time. I can’t hold it up; I will fall again. But I have free will. I can make this choice. Grace gives me this choice.

Since my Reconciliation Sunday, I’ve felt that God was standing beside me, and I was holding His hand — clinging to Him, like a child, as we go to face the one who has hurt me so much before. I feel safe. I know it can’t hurt me as long as I hold on.


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