Holding On

I remember holding on tightly.

Not that it hurt him particularly, because this five year-old’s grip on the man’s hand was hardly going to leave a massive impression. I gripped it though. I gripped it for all it was worth, because it was a sign of safety. It was a sign that all was well in the world.

At the time, I felt as long as I held onto that, then things were fine. I was scared that if I let go of that, then I would on my own and looking for something else to hold onto that would not give anything like that sense of security and wellbeing.

That was me as back in my childhood days. That’s how nervous I got going out with my family into social settings. I didn’t like it and though I trusted my Mum a lot, I really felt it safe to hold onto my Dad’s hand for all it was worth.

My Dad is not in the same country as me at the moment, so it’s a little tricky looking for his hand to hold. To be fair, he’d be a bit concerned if his son was still looking to hold onto him all these years later. Yet I don’t feel so proud and independent that I don’t need to hold onto someone. Life keeps teaching me that to navigate through it, I’ll need to hold onto someone or I will fall for anyone. I can’t afford for that to happen. I’ve fallen for too many people in life to make that mistake again. Their hands were never made for me to hold onto. The grip would weaken and before long they would let go and I’d be falling.

I cannot afford to fall like that again. The landing is not soft. The crashing is not minimal. The aftermath is not pretty and the comeback is not easy.

It is possible, though, when I remember who is there to hold onto. And when I remember, I reach out and …

I hold on tightly.

(Photo by Liv Bruce on Unsplash)

For His Name’s Sake

Shalom

C. L. J. Dryden