He brought his trucks to the edge of the couch and invited me to drive them with him: “Trucks? Drive?”

And so we drove them: up and down my folded legs, around my toes, into the couch cushion crevices, over terrain no sane truck driver would ever attempt.

I imagined a driver in the truck, and how terrifying it would be to careen from kneecap to shinbone, rattle over an ankle, and find oneself wedged nose-down in the ravine between two feet.

But we who held the trucks were not alarmed. We held the trucks; we guided their paths; our hands held them steady on the steepest inclines, and if they fell, we were there to rescue.

How often I forget: the way looks steep, the falls unthinkable, but good and sovereign Hands uphold me, guide me on every path. I am safe.

©️2019 by Stacy Crouch

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