Whole Wool and the Everlasting Arms
What have I to dread, what have I to fear,
leaning on the everlasting arms?
—E.A. Hoffman, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”
“Whole wool, WHOLE WOOL!” my two-year-old brother (who had difficulty pronouncing his r’s) insisted upon singing in the family home video we watched this year over Christmas. Those of us watching looked at each other and laughed because we knew what this meant: back then, only one song held sway for Jimmy—my little brother who had been dressed in a black cape and white turtleneck for the song-and-dance variety show my younger sister and I had attempted to organize—and that song was “Whole Wool.” Since learning the song “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” it had been effectively shorthanded by Jimmy to “Whole Wool,” a song that, when sung, had the power to appease his toddler fussiness and even get him to join in, smiling and clapping, holding the whole world between two tiny chubby hands as my mom helped him remember the words. I miss the days when a simple Sunday school song was all it took to turn fretful tears into joyfully sung confessions of faith. He’s got you and me, brother, in his hands.
As an adult, I’ve been tempted to think of “Whole Wool” as a simple song for simpler times—espousing a childish Sunday school theology from which my maturing faith has needed to distance itself. I would perhaps still be scoffing at “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” if I didn’t find myself so very much in need of my childhood faith while I’ve grappled with a changing mental landscape. For a sense of grounding amid turbulent seas, I’ve needed to return to the basics—to be reminded that “Jesus loves me, this I know” is, quite simply, everything. You know? Little ones to Him belong; they are weak, but he is strong. Yes, yes, yes: Jesus loves me. And He loves you, too.
This morning, I found myself clutching a cup of warm coffee between my two hands—about the only “whole wool” I am capable of holding—singing simple songs I learned in childhood as I gazed through ice cold window panes at our backyard, newly transformed into a wonderland of frost and the shy pastel colors of sunrise. As I watched a flock of geese V their way across the fresh morning sky, I knew it was enough just to be there with my Sunday school songs and God, watching the world with awe and something akin to my childhood faith. Because my Father really does hold the whole world in between two scarred hands, all is well. Even when that doesn’t feel true, the promise holds.
Standing on the brink of everything, the Israelites gathered around Moses before crossing into the Promised Land after 40 years of desert hardship and wandering. Knowing he would not live to cross over with them, Moses gathered the people around him like a flock and lifted his hands to bless each tribe uniquely, imparting identity-infused words of blessing and promise to each of them. In a final blessing to the Israelites as a whole, Moses imparted these words:
The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
How did those words land with them back then? Were they dazed and confused, fed up with wandering and just wanting to finally arrive at a place of stability? In the face of unconquered enemies in a foreign land, did they trust this strange and mysterious God who had delivered their parents through parted seas and desert winds—the God of their childhood—to lead them into a future laced with hope and goodness? All they were given to move forward into the unknown was the promise of God’s presence, and it proved to be enough. As the people of God, will we let God’s promised presence be enough for us, today?
The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
This is “whole wool” language, and God’s kept promise to His people is the same promise that is keeping me. Standing on the cliff’s edge over a sea of unknowns, the promise of the everlasting arms tells me that even if I jump and do not fly, there is no distance too far for God to catch me. These everlasting arms reach deeper than pain, longer than time; they’re arms that will keep reaching and holding, even after we have lost the will or capacity to reach back. May we be given the grace simply to entrust our whole selves into the ever-cradling, everlasting arms today. May our hearts embrace the courage to leap into every unknown that lies before us and within us because after all: He's got you and me—sister, brother—in His hands.
Going Deeper: Listen to Jess Ray’s version of “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.”
What a fellowship, what a joy divine
Leaning on the everlasting arms
What a blessedness, what a peace is mine
Leaning on the everlasting arms . . .