I know you’re busy today. I know you have a lot going on. I know that right now, about 7.753 billion people are all grasping for your attention at the same time.
I also know that you do a really good job at what you do. You make the world spin. You make trees do photosynthesis. You made the Atlanta Braves world champions.
I can’t imagine how difficult your gig must be.
So I know the last thing you need right now is one more voice speaking to you. But I am asking you, as a friend, for a favor.
Namely, because when I was a child, my Sunday school class always sang a particular song about you. And for years I believed that this children’s song was true.
I believed this world was not just floating in space. I believed that we were held. I believed that this planet was supported by unseen hands. Two enormous hands.
I did not believe that our earth was on the shoulders of Atlas. I did not believe that our globe was suspended on a Rand McNally stand.
I believed that magnificent hands held our planet. Two hands that were so powerful they could tear the Tetons in two. So mighty, they could uproot sequoias, decimate entire continents, and cause the SEC to win multiple national championships.
With your hands, God, you could reroute rivers, turn planets upside down, and splinter the Andes. With your hands, you could perform neurosurgery on a ladybug, or reorganize molecular biology.
With your hands, you could take the earth, tilt it sideways, like a giant lemonade pitcher. All the seas would be drained, spilled out, and this world would become a Mojave.
With your hands you could rearrange the solar system, like billiard balls on a table.
You could place our planet millions of lightyears from the sun. Life as we know it would cease. We would become colder than the devil’s heart. Colder than Jupiter. Surface temperatures would sink into the negative septillions of degrees.
But once I hit a certain age, I sort of stopped believing in the power of those hands.
Mainly, because I couldn’t see those hands. They were invisible to me. Because I am so small. And you are so, well, so you.
I am like an ant crawling along the basin of the Grand Canyon. I could not comprehend its size. I cannot even see the canyon itself. I can’t see anything.
But, I’ve grown since then.
I choose to believe in your hands. But even now, at this age, if I’m being honest, it is easier not to believe sometimes.
For I have watched loved ones die. I have seen good people suffer. I have watched people tear each other apart. Country against country. Religion against religion. Dodger against Atlanta Brave. This world is one big troubled place.
But I believe steadfastly in those hands because I WANT to believe. I need to believe.
Which is why I ask for those two hands to reach through the layers of the exosphere, thermosphere, mesosphere, stratosphere and the troposphere.
I am asking those hands to make their way to the North American continent. To reach through the clouds into Little Rock, Arkansas.
I pray those hands will find the oncology wing of Arkansas Children’s Hospital.
I pray those hands will locate the room where Colton White is sleeping. Touch Colton’s little body. Eradicate his neuroblastoma. Rid his body of pain.
Do it because you can. Do it because miracles are beautiful. Do it because because beauty is your business. Do it because people are your business. Do it because love is your business.
Do it because you an artist, God. And Colton is your among your finest works. Your masterstroke. You broke the mold when you made him. His is your Mona Lisa.
Don’t do it for me, God. Don’t do it for Colton’s mother or father. Don’t even do it Colton himself. Do it for the world, Lord.
Do it so that when Sunday school children around the globe congregate in that little classroom, they will know that the song they sing is true. Truer than true. In fact, in my life, it is the only true statement I know.
He really does have the whole world in his hands.