Hands

My little girl asks me if I need some hands.

“Hands?”  She asked again,   “Do you need some help mama?”

Yes, it is as clear as crystal; this mama does not have it all together. There is a campaign out there in the Christian circles; I am sure I have voted for it.

Deciding that we are all enough.

We are enough pretty, enough smart, enough busy and beautiful;  stop looking around they say.  I get it.  

Comparison chokes.

But that enough word can anesthetize. It can soothe us into thinking that we can stop striving and seeking, looking and learning.

When Paul wrote about the transforming of our minds, I don’t think he meant we would sit on the sidelines waiting for someone to throw us the ball.

Transforming is the transitioning from failure to function, hands clenched to arms open.  It is grasping when I am simply not enough that He is.

The enemy seizes that moment, that slow frustrated exhale when we realize we need more hands.  He whispers the falsehood of failure and the deception of disappointment.

We are not enough and quite frankly we don’t have to be.

If we were enough, the cross would be useless; grace pointless and hope hallow.

I want to know the Jesus that is enough.  I want to know when I come up empty, He is full. 

Hands, yes.

I need, I want and I love Him for His nail scared hands.