Open Hands
Learning what to hold, what to release, and who is carrying the rest
Life often feels like a delicate dance of breathing in and letting go, a continual movement of holding and releasing. It shows itself in how we move through a single day, in the quiet interplay between what is asked of us and what lives within us. Much of this holding happens without witnesses. We do our best to keep everything from slipping, even when our hands grow tired.
Over time, we begin to notice that not everything asks to be held in the same way.
Some of what we carry is resilient.
Some of it is fragile and asks for more attentive care.
I have been reflecting on this distinction lately, not as a way to organize or manage my life, but to become more attentive to it. To notice what is being entrusted to me in this season and what may be released without harm. In this receptivity, I am learning the difference between what needs my presence and what does not need to be carried right now.
Some things fall and recover. Plans shift without warning, tasks wait for another day, and words arrive later than we intended. They still matter, but they tend to find their way back, asking less of us than we imagine in the moment.
Some situations call for a different kind of care. They arrive gently and wait to be noticed. They are often easy to miss amid the fullness of our days. A conversation we hesitate to enter. A sadness we keep moving past. A weariness that asks for care rather than correction. These feel like glass, not because they are fragile in the ordinary sense, but because they can be easily altered. Once broken, they cannot simply be put back together in the same way.
When I am tired or overwhelmed, I notice how easily I lose touch with this distinction. I move faster than my heart can keep up, filling the quiet with motion. I set aside what feels tender, telling myself there will be time later. But what I avoid does not disappear. It lingers at the edges of the day, shaping how I make my way through it and how present I am able to be. By evening, I sometimes wonder why my heart feels heavy and why even small moments feel sharp-edged. I am learning that the weight I carry is often less about what I am doing and more about what I have not yet allowed myself to face.
I didn’t see it clearly until it was named in community.
I didn’t realize how much I was holding until I brought it with me into a peer supervision meeting for spiritual direction. I spoke honestly from where I was, naming the emotions but not yet the weight beneath them. Somewhere in the listening and prayer, as we prayed words of lament together, it became clear. I was carrying more than I could hold. The invitation came gently, not as a correction, but as truth. This did not all belong in my hands. Some of it needed to be placed back into God’s care.
In that circle of women, each of us shaped by different stories and traditions and bound by a shared commitment to presence, I found myself held in my honesty. There was no fixing and no rushing past the pain. Only listening. They stayed with what was heavy and, in doing so, helped me remain with what had been named. In that shared vulnerability, I felt myself being held and lifted. Not relieved of the weight, but supported within it.
Later that evening, a dear friend called. She listened, then prayed. She put words to what I was feeling but had not yet said aloud: depleted. Something in me softened as I let myself receive it. In that moment, I felt supported. From there, I was able to take the next step, not with answers but with a deeper trust that I did not have to hold it all alone.
As I accompanied others in the days that followed, I sensed that perhaps God had already been preparing the way. Being supported in this way made room for me to help others trust that they, too, could place what they were holding into God’s care. The pain and suffering in the world and in the lives of those I love did not go away. And still, I found myself upheld by a strength not my own, learning to meet what came with a more open heart. A deep peace settled in, not because everything was resolved, but because I was no longer bearing it alone. I was being sustained along the way, offering it back to God, one step at a time.
From there, I began to slow down enough to notice what still asks for my attention.
When I pause long enough to face what I have been avoiding, something within me softens. Not because the situation is resolved, but because it is no longer hidden. No longer carried alone.
I notice this most in the mornings and evenings, when the day is either just beginning or slowly winding down. Writing in my journal, going for a walk, or taking time to reflect or sit for a meal, I am slow enough to breathe. It’s often then that I become aware of how far I’ve moved ahead of my own heart. Some days, I only recognize what was delicate after I’ve rushed past it. Even then, God is already there.
I am learning that care does not always mean clinging more tightly. At times, it asks for loosening, a willingness to let some things fall away so there is room to hold what matters most. There is humility in this, and a tender grace. An invitation to live with open hands.
There is relief in knowing I do not have to hold everything. There is tenderness in choosing to stay with what is fragile. I am learning to pay attention. And in that learning, I trust that God is already carrying the rest.