Hold my heart in your hand

I love holding hands. One of the things that first attracted me to my husband were his strong, athletic hands. As big and manly as they are, they are still very gentle as he plays with my hair while we watch TV or rubs my back while I fall asleep.
One of the first things I did when my babies were born was put my finger in their tiny fist. I remember how they would bury their hands in my hair as I held them up to my shoulder to burp them or rock them to sleep.
Even now, sometimes as we're driving down the road...all together... I'll reach back into the back seat and hold out my hand, palm up. One of the kids will put their hand in mine and we'll just ride like that for a few miles. I give their hand a little squeeze, and smile at them in the rearview mirror. It's our silent little "I love you".
Yesterday, in church, as we four sat in a row in our pew, Parker reached over and took my hand. He lay my palm flat against his...and discovered that his hand was bigger than mine. He excitedly elbowed his dad and pointed and gestured, proud to have passed another milestone. Hillary patted his leg in big sisterly fashion...her new class ring glinting on her long slender finger. Yancy lay his arm on the back of the pew behind our two kids and put his hand on the back of my neck. They don't even know it, but they all hold my heart in their hands.