Dad’s Hand

My friend’s sister had a baby over the weekend–a son.  They waited until he was born to find out the sex, and I think I would like to do it that way, too, if Jenny and I are blessed with another child some day.  Anyway, this little boy is adorable, with lots of dark hair

(sidebar.  It sucks when a newborn has more hair than I do.  But such is my life)

and cute little chubby baby-cheeks. 

My friend took a bunch of pictures, but one of them in particular really stuck out to me.  The baby is lying there wearing one of those little knit gangsta beanies that babies are made to wear when they’re newborn.  You see his father’s hand gently reaching down and touching the top of his head with the back of a single finger.  I don’t know what he was thinking when he did it, or if he said anything at all.  My friend captioned the picture with “Dad’s Hand.”

And it speaks to me.

It speaks of a father’s love for his son.

It speaks of welcome.

The hand looks as if it has seen work, and will see more.  It looks comforting, but also strong, and it will protect the baby at all costs.

It made me think of how we are always that baby to God–we are always a newborn that He loves above all, and would do anything

anything

for. 

He reaches down to us, to me, and gently touches the top of my head with the back of his finger.

Sometimes I feel that gentle touch, and sometimes, like the baby in the picture, I am unaware. 

 But that does not make the touch any less real.