Take My Hand.

I watched a father and son walking hand-in-hand along the hallway of our local shopping mall. It was obvious that, for this man, finding the right shirt, or buying the perfect tie wasn't the object of the day. Being together was his complete and total reason for their day out.

To a lot of men, the simple thought of holding hands with their son is not what would be considered an optimum situation for either in private or for public consumption. Call it stigma, protocol or something completely Machiavellian, holding hands with a son, as a large majority of men suppose, sends the wrong message.

For the record, I am not one of those men.

In fact, as I stumbled upon this little scene at our mall, my thoughts - and my heart - naturally considered the young boy that still reaches for my hand when we walk a busy street or navigate a parking lot full of moving cars. And I wonder how much longer this son of mine will reach for my hand and just how I will feel when he shoots me that, "come on dad, I'm too old for that" look, followed by both sets of hands remaining quietly by our sides.

My father-in-law used to say that one of his sons was special to him because he always held his hand. I didn't understand exactly what he meant until a little hand reached up and took mine many years later. To be truthful, there's nothing quite like the feeling of your child's hand slipping into your own. It speaks a million words and gives rise to a million more sentiments - all of them not just good, but very, very good.

And so as we cross a busy street or walk into the unknown, I can still expect to feel that little hand reaching up and slipping into mine. And every time it does, I breath a little sigh of relief that I am still able to walk, hand-in-hand with this little guy that I love more than words can ever express.