Guided by Love’s pressure, His hand on my back

On this chill morning, though, standing there at my window, it’s the light that catches my eye. Shining warm, shining clear, the eastern light has touched the leaves that still cling, swaying smooth in the breeze whisp’ring by. The light, it glows, illuminates, transforms…

I’m drinking it in, charmed, warmed by the light in the trees. Thinking of the light, of guidance, of hands. Of His hands.

Light in trees, light for paths, light that guided our feet. How often I’d found consolation in this truth, that His word was a lamp for my feet and a light for my path, and that Father, He ordered our steps. And how often I’d prayed for light; to be led; for Him to direct unsure feet. But lately, I’d been thinking about hands, Father’s hands, and how He could guide me with those…

I’m stock still at my window, drinking light, thinking of Father’s hands. Looking at eastern rays warming leaves, thinking of guidance, and I can near feel it. It’s Father, standing beside this girl with the mussed-up hair and the rumpled pajamas, and His hand, it’s on my back. Father’s right hand, warm through my shirt, guiding with a touch on the back.

Just as lovers stroll together through crowds, husband’s hand resting sweet on the back, so He, too. Or just as I guide my own small boy safe with a pressure that’s gentle on his back, so Father. Him, too.

Some direction comes in words, but words can come from a distance. That’s what I’m thinking today. I can call through a window to give guidance to boys pulling weeds, raking leaves in the yard. But to be guided by touch, to feel love’s pressure, oh, for that, Love must be standing near by.

How thankful I am, this mussed-up girl, for a Father whose hands are so gentle. Who guides with Love’s pressure warm, soft on my back, and whose presence attends every moment. For I am His, and He is mine.