Right after Tito was born, we, new mother, new father, and baby boy were left alone to bond for an hour. We both grasped at the wonder of this little guy. We were told (and teased) to count toes and fingers. The time was really to hold him and be with him and to let the beauty of life and the gift of God flow through us. We had waited 38 weeks for this moment. The joy laid a thousand hands on us, ordaining us for the task. Time seem to disappeared for us during this hour. We try to grip time, even as it oozed away.
We noticed his long fingers. Long in proportion to the rest of him. He was so little as any baby is. His hand looked like a tear drop in the wideness on my hand. In the coming months, many people noticed his long delicate fingers. At church, a woman said he had the perfect fingers to play the piano. She could imagine him playing Chopin's contemplative compositions. My Father-in-law knows my love of basketball and said his long fingers would make for the perfect jump shot. Others predicted surgeon, potter, sculptor and many other fields that require careful use of human hands. I resisted the call of playing fortune teller with my son. As a new father, I wanted to bath in the current moment and the gift of my son. God knows his destiny, and mine is to love both God and my son. The unknown caress our dream like hands in the form of clapping hands.
Now, I wait on the Lord and what the doctors will say about his future. I think about my son's fingers. Once, I got a picture of his hand folded in way most people hold their hands while praying. So, perfect that a friend accused us of staging his long fingers for the photo. His hands found that position on their own, without any help from me. He is now holding toys, my fingers, and his parents heart. His future rests in others hands. I wonder if waiting is the space between the finger of God and our finger?