Holding tomorrows

She passed by. In the silence of the night, she saw him curled up in bed. The wards were darkened, except for the lights at the nurses' station, but she could just make out the frail white-haired figure lying on his side, with the nasogastric tube carefully manuevred out of the way.

Her breath caught every time she glanced in past the open door of his room. She would stop for awhile, keen eyes observing the old man, hoping that he was sleeping well. Feeling utterly powerless. And when, inevitably, she thought about what brought him there in the first place, and what he'd been through and would go through, she would say a prayer.


Fervent. Desperate. Whispered to the Divine, more earnest than she'd been in a long time. Too long.

Perhaps, that is the point of desperation. That we finally reach the end of ourselves. That we are cornered and we are driven to our knees, and we admit that we mere mortals are only capable of so very little. That our completely frightening helplessness eventually pulls our eyes towards Him who is far from helpless. 

Him who holds the whole world, and at the same time, every single human heart, in His loving hands.  

Him who holds tomorrow. Him who holds us.

"I don't know about tomorrow;
I just live from day to day.
I don't borrow from its sunshine
For its skies may turn to grey.
...
Many things about tomorrow
I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow
And I know who holds my hand."

~ 'I Know Who Holds Tomorrow', Ira Stanphill ~ 

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