We sit around my dining room table as the boys play not-so-quietly in the adjoining living room.
Our hands -- they are so very full, I explain, smiling at the goodness of blessings in arms.
Our employees, who are more like family, friends, they nod as my words unfold and then come together again realizing that this letter I'm speaking isn't one of just gratitude but rather one explaining our decision to seek out new hands to take the ropes of our Curves.
Our hands, I say again, they are too full.
I can feel the heaviness lifting out of my arms when the understanding comes pouring out of their lips and shows in their knowing nods.
Everyone knows what I'm saying is true, and I probably was the last one to realize it anyway. I've been feeling the heaviness we've been carrying since the first of this year brought about an unexpected health journey and the emergence of two growing boys who require more than just extra muscle to haul their lengthening bodies but also extra endurance and strength to shoulder the pangs of getting older.
Then God, being good and being God, well, he's been pulling me toward living out the strengths He's given me, by not just opening doors, but hand-crafting them with only a carpenter's skill out of seemingly enormous and solid and unlikely walls.
I can almost feel the stress in my arms when I think I about trying to carry it all ...
or when I think about trying to strong-arm my will against His out of the simple fear of change.
We don't entertain the thought of carrying the entire good but heavy load -- the club, the boys, our marriage, writing, the ministries, the new callings -- for longer than it takes to pray and seek council and hear
that something has to be given into new hands
because we simply can't carry any of it well, if we keep dropping pieces of everything along the way.
And, so on a Monday, I turn my palms up and unclasp my grip
willing to let another set of hands unload from our arms
some of the weight of blessing we're no longer meant to carry.