Reaching out

When I'm driving with the kids in the back seat, I like to reach one hand behind me, between the driver's and passenger's seats, and hold it out expectantly. I'm always rewarded with a small hand placed in mine.  If I reach toward the passenger side, Archer grasps it; if straight behind me (as best I can), Cady Gray does.  It's a comforting feeling that never gets old.  A hand reaching out blindly, and the feeling of it being taken by another.

I like to half-joke with Cady Gray, the way parents do, about the day when she won't love me anymore, and she protests (the way kids do) that that day will never come.  I'm confident that she's right, by and large.  What I really fear is the day I reach into the back seat and no one takes my hand.  It may be because their hands will be busy with cell phones, or it may be because they're rolling their eyes at their sentimental mother.  Or it may because they're not there.

A good definition of having a place in the world would be reaching behind you and having someone take your hand.  A good definition of solidarity -- perhaps of hope.  Instead of dreading the day my hand isn't met by another, I should probably be thinking about the day when I'm the one in the back seat waiting for someone to extend a hand to me.