Look God, no hands!

"Look ma, No hands!" is a pivotal phrase in a child's declaration of independence. Not only have we done away with the training wheels by then, but we are so in control that we don't even need our hands to keep the bike upright and steadily humming along on the right course. Of course, as kids we can be a bit naive about just how safe we are, but there's something so fresh and lovely about the faith and excitement of a child who has just learned to do something new.

Adults don't usually express it the same way, but many of us have our own ways of saying "look what I can do!" and we take no small measure of pride in those accomplishments. In fact, when others take credit for our work or thwart our steady upward climb to the top of whatever mountain we have purposed to climb, some of us can get downright miffed.

I sure do.

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I remember my first tentative brush with intellectual property rights. I believe I was looking through a book of Christian music, and I came across a familiar song with very familiar lyrics. How familiar? Well... I wrote them. Top to bottom. Beginning to end. My creative efforts. There, on the bottom of the page, was the copyright. My lyrics, without attribution, copyrighted without my knowledge by two people I knew well, and one of whom had collaborated with me on the music.

My first reaction was shock. Following rather quickly on shock's heels were indignation and anger.

It was mine--my work.

I had a sort of repeat performance this past week. Only this time, it was my editing that showed up uncredited in a magazine. That is to say, a submission to my magazine was reworked by me (and I do mean reworked -- it had been shorted by 1000 words, but left in the author's words as much as possible), sent to the author for review, received with joy, and, without my knowledge, my reworked draft was submitted to another magazine who beat us to the publishing punch. Again I felt it--shock, indignation, anger. Yeah, it was not *my* story, but the version printed in the magazine was mine--word-for-word, with a few tiny editorial changes that were the prerogative of the publication.

It was mine! How dare the author not recognize that!

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Ah... but all of it makes me think, especially when I have calmed enough to see a little bit more clearly.

I am nothing but the person God has fashioned me to be. I have no skill He didn't give me. I have no resources He doesn't bestow. I have no opportunities He has not laid before me. I have no blessings that have not come from His hand.

I am not my own.

But still, I feel so entitled.

My work is mine.
My time is mine.
My money is mine.
My talents are mine.
My family and friends are mine.
My desires are mine.
My body is mine.
My flaws are mine.
My sins are mine...
And how dare anyone deprive me of any of them?

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I'm fewer than 48 hours away from a "routine" procedure that has me scared half to death. No, I suppose I don't believe that my life will be in real danger when they slip the gas mask over my mouth and nose. I have faith in the skill of the doctors as much as I have faith in anything. I just know that what is routine to my doctor is so far from *my* routine as to be terrifying. I'm not sure it's even the medical aspect that scares me. I think what rattles me is that this is one matter in which I am not my own. I'm simply not in control, and I have to trust my life and wellbeing to others.

What further unnerves me is the recognition that there is not a moment in my life when that is not true.

What? Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit which is in you, which you have of God, and you are not your own? For you are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.

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"No hands" means something else to me. See, I never really got comfortable enough riding my bike to want to ride without holding on to the handlebars. I like control too much. I like to feel connected to the ground, even if it is through a slender metal frame with wheels. I like to steer, to control what bumps I hit in the road. I don't like coasting at exhilarating speeds and trusting the momentum of the bike to keep me upright. I want my feet near the ground, the pace to be my own and the apparatus to be under my guidance.

It's hard to recognize that I am still that child when it comes to my life. Sure, the clunky training wheels have come off (or at least I like to think so), but still I clutch at the handlebars and try to steer my life the way I want it to go.

All the while, I'm heedless of the strong hands that encompass and shield me, the gentle hands that would lead me safely to the end of my journey. I'm ignorant of the power of the One who keeps me upright--so much more to be trusted than the laws of physics. I'm blind to the forgiving hands that catch me when I veer off the safe road and fall, ignoring all of the signs He has erected for my safety. Only then, when I realize that I have been lovingly preserved, do my eyes pop open.

I don't want to acknowledge my dependence on God for everything... my position of inadequacy without Him. My need for Him in everything, right down to every breath that I breathe. I don't want to, but I must.

Oh to find the faith to let go, to trust his strong arms to carry me, to cry out with all my heart: "Look God, no hands!"