I was sitting in a session of occupational therapy, watching the therapist patiently yet persistently coach my son, Caleb.
“Release.”
The room was small. The air was thick. I was intent, watching Caleb’s face. He was even more focused. He stared at the toy car he had grasped moments before, willing his fingers to open and release the object. Naturally, Caleb wanted the easy way out. He wanted to use his right hand to pry it from his left hand. It was a painstaking moment.
The therapist’s calm voice continued. “Caleb, release. Tell your brain to release.” Tears stung my eyes.
Caleb lost the use of his left hand during heart surgery two years before we adopted him. Soon after we brought him home, we started intense therapy, to help him gain as much use as possible of his left hand. Things most of us do without thought a hundred times a day take extreme concentration and are still only occasionally successful for my son.
Grasp and release.
Pick up a fork, take a bite, return fork to plate.
Grasp a pen, sign your name, lay pen on table.
Raise the hairbrush, brush hair, set on vanity.
It was brutal watching him struggle. But that wasn’t the reason I was fighting back tears. That moment in the therapy clinic turned into a holy moment. I could see myself in his fight to release. I watched what I often do mentally played out in the therapist’s office.
How many times did/do I wrestle with “Release?” I try to fight battles, fix problems, and patch relationships, even though none are meant for me. We all face those things that are bigger than we are, tasks and attitudes that require the Master’s touch. And how many times do we, after “successfully” surrendering the situation that we can’t fix, try to pick it back up? You know, give it another try. God’s not moving fast enough. I will help Him!
Oh, but what freedom rolls in when we finally release something that has been weighing us down. We feel lighter, overwhelmed by peace, shalom!
I was jolted back to reality by the excitement in the therapist’s voice:
“Come on, you can do it. You are so close! Release.”
And with that final command, the matchbox car fell from Caleb’s hand to the floor. We all cheered, and his face beamed. He had done it. The end goal was release, and he succeeded. He was spent. Exhausted but elated.
But, unlike his mom, he didn’t rush to pick it back up. He just left it at the feet of the therapist.
Amy McArthy lives in Columbia, TN, where she and her husband have raised their five children. Amy has been homeschooling for at least 20 years (she may have lost track). She loves canning, cooking, and coffee with a friend.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
