“Down, down, down,” my twenty-one month old commands as she reaches up to me from where she’s standing at my feet. Confused about up and down but knowing it produces one of the two, she clutches her beloved Hippo lovey and soaks up my embrace when I finally lift her up.
She just wanted to be held.
Reading the lyrics to some hymns I had just sung at church that morning, I start to cry and my Mom reaches out for me to be embraced by her. She had regained some strength those past few days and was able to wrap her arms around me and hug me as I cried.
I was grateful to be held.
She told me she held debates with God at night when she couldn’t sleep. They ended favourably each time, with amicable feelings continuing to grow. She was ready for Him to pick her up. To take her home. To lead her into her heavenly home.
She was ready to be held.