She barely knew me-- we had met just a half-hour earlier-- but I was the only adult present. When she fell and bumped her knee, she cried for Daddy, but had to run to me.
"Hold me," she whimpered, clambering onto my lap, burrowing close against my chest, clinging to me with small arms. So I held her tightly, stroking her silky little-girl hair, breathing in the scent of blueberry muffin and sweat and children's shampoo, crooning in her ear, and wishing for the days when I was small and could beg comfort from anyone . . . .
Hold me, I, too, want to cry at times, my voice echoing in the vast empty universe, feeling desperate for any arms that will reach out and tuck me close.
And a Voice does answer, but sometimes I don't hear Him as He whispers,
I have loved you with an everlasting love . . . and underneath are My everlasting arms . . .
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