My arms feel naked without the weight of a niece in them or the touch of their hair. Over the two months I was with them, I got used to our ritual of me braiding their curly locks and them massaging my shoulders. They’d race by me in their Hawaiian slippers, and I’d snag them out of a dead bolt, wrap them up completely, and say “Guess what?” And they’d roll their eyes and reply, “I already know: you love me” before escaping my grasp. The sticky cards of well-loved games are a little harder to miss, but I would take their sweaty foreheads resting on my shoulder again any day.
Instead of girls, my fingers are now wrapped around the steering wheel. In 4 days, I've pounded out roughly 1,500 miles of West Coast states peppered with stops at friends’ homes and my new favorite National Park. Initial hand waves after not seeing each other in years usually gives way to a tentative pandemic hug, and I’m grateful every time someone shoves a steaming mug of coffee into my hands. In Yosemite I grip the rocks as I haul myself up the 30%-grade hiking trail, let the frigid glacier water run over my fingertips, and play with a unique pine cone, little wisps of scales decorating its sides like a crown and poking me ever so gently.
The beauty around me is staggering at times. How unworthy and spoiled of a recipient am I? My hands are full of his gifts, none of which I earned, but all of which I’ll accept and say “I get it, Jesus: you love me.”
arms full of girls as I improve my handiwork of braiding
