Just Hanging Out by Awara Fernandez

The sounds of laughter thundered down upon my shoulders, bouncing off the walls of the enclosed playground inside a local fast food restaurant as children ran by in a blur, their perpetual motion creating a vortex of delighted energy.  At the center of all these fluid sounds and sights was one small child frozen in fear, and I was focused on this little boy, my three-year-old grandson, Judah, as he hung suspended in mid-air, fingers desperately gripping one edge of the cushioned platforms put in place for children to climb up to the top of the play structure, his cheek pressing into the mat while, behind him, his feet were dangling a terrifying inch from the step below him. This inch was terrifying because he couldn’t see it, stuck as he was.   

“I afraid! I need you to help me,” he cried out to his mother, my daughter Kathryn.

“I’m here, Judah. I see you. Let go,” she answered calmly.

Surely his mother had not quite understood his predicament, so he repeated, “I afraid! I need you to help me.” “I’m here, Judah. I see you. Let go,” Kathryn answered again.

I watched this little exchange between mother and son, wondering at the wisdom Kathryn displayed and hoping, so hoping, that Judah would trust her and let go, and then, as he dropped the inch to the stair below, he would know, deep in his body, that he had what it takes to join the happy children, to enter their playground joy.

But, he still hung there, precious minutes passing by, until he tried once again, a bit of puzzlement in his voice this time, “I afraid! I need you to help me.”

“I'm here, Judah. I see you. Let go,” Kathryn patiently reassured him.

I’m here.

I see you.

Let go.

What more could a mother offer, seeing her child torn between fear and trust, knowing that if he chose trust, his world would expand, would explode in joy?

I’m here. She is present.

I see you. She has the correct perspective since she sees what he cannot.

Let go. She gives him the prescription for his troubles.

We had an hour to spend that day at the playground, and Judah spent forty-five minutes wrestling with his fear. Finally, in exhaustion, he let go.

And fell an inch. And froze again, this time as truth blossomed within him.

And then he took off, climbing and laughing and sliding down the tall chute to race around to the bottom of the stairs and go again! And again. And again.

His joy was complete.

For fifteen minutes. And, then it was time to leave.

He had forfeited forty-five minutes of joy, clinging to untrust.

And, oh, my heart. How often have I cried out to my Father,

“I afraid! I need you to help me.”

And heard Him reply, “I’m here. I see you. Let go.”

This has not been the help I have wanted. I have desired help that rescues me, that removes me from scary situations where I am at the end of my resources.

But he offers a better help. He offers Himself.

I’m here. His presence.

I see you. His perspective.

Let go. His prescription.

I spend a lot of time hanging in between fear and trust, forfeiting the joy that could be mine.

Lord, I trust.

Help, Thou, my untrust.

Awara lives in Georgia with her husband of 33 years and their rescue dog, Gonzo. They have 6 children and 6 grandchildren.