His chubby fist clutches tightly at the neckline of my dress, and he sighs a contented little sigh--finally asleep.
As I gently place him on fresh sheets for a nap his hand continues to entwine in my clothes and I carefully pry it loose--and I think.
Do I clutch at "things" that make me feel secure?
Do I place more value on "stuff" than souls?
Do possesions entwine themselves so deeply in my heart that I can't hear God whispering "trust me?"
Do I lack a place of rest in my life because I refuse to "let go?"
"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."