The Helping Hand

A man was lost in a void. No heat, no light, no up, no down, no time, no space, no matter, no idea, no hope. He had no will or strength left, all he could do was sink in the cold, blind, silent emptiness. He fell, but heard no wind. He decayed, but felt no pain. He’d tried to grope for something in the past. He’d reach out his hands and hope that he’d find something to latch on to. He’d hoped that he’d find a warm, solid hand to grab, to catch him and help him climb. Sometimes he would. But he would always slip from the grasp, left to fall away again.

However, something stirred within the man, and he felt the need to reach out one more time. He gripped a hand, and marveled at its firmness. He thought that he would slip again, but still he gripped tighter, because he didn’t want to fall back into that abyss. To his surprise, the hand held on. In wonderment, he thanked the dear master who had given him the hand, and in response, he heard a voice. It was subtle, inaudible, but it resonated in the depths of the man’s soul. It warmed the air, caressed his cheeks, stirred his heart, lifted his mood, and opened his eyes. And the man saw that he was not falling, but flying, and the hand didn’t seem to be in his hand any more.

It didn’t matter to the man, for he knew that man with the hand was with him, and that he would see the source soon.

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