In His Hands

Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Matthew 14:19

I tossed and turned. Turned and tossed. Cranked the electric blanket up. Turned it back down. It was unusual for me – to struggle to sleep. But my mind was in turbo and the off-switch was gone.

“Lonny, are you awake?”

“No,” came the reply.

Oh. Guess it was just me. And God. With all of my thoughts. My one million thoughts.

“Okay, God,” I whispered in the dark. “I’m worried about Gabe. His temper is two-inches long.”

Place Him in my hands.

“What about Sam? The middle child stuff?”

Place him in my hands.

“Logan’s friends are all sick. What if he gets sick, too?”

My hands. Remember my hands?

“Grant’s middle school angst. What about that?”

Just put it in my hands.“Zay’s tonsils, Lord. They’re red. They’re huge.”

My hands, Daughter. My hands.

I sat up in bed, reached for my Bible, and switched the table lamp on. “Okay, God. But show me how. I need to see Your hands.”

The answer came in a familiar place. Jesus teaching. The sun sinking. And five thousand hungry men. I’d read the story many times, but never quite this way.

The disciples wanted to send the people away to find food, because the crowd could produce only a few fish and some bread. But Jesus took that bread into his hands, held it, raised it to heaven, and prayed.

Rewind. He held the bread. In His hands.

In Jesus’ hands, there was enough. Enough food. Enough provision. Enough care.