It's close to the end of an epic journey. Two companions have traveled impossible distances and weathered incalculable trials, all while one has carried an increasingly heavy load. But all of that is behind them. They're beaten up, worn out, and barely hanging on, but finally the finish line in sight. In fact, the finish line has technically been crossed, but the danger is far from over.
Because one of them is dangling over a cliff and a lake of lava is waiting below. You can picture the scene. The faithful companion has his hand, but he's slipping. Partially because there's a bunch of blood making his whole arm slippery, and partially because he isn't making any effort of his own to hold on. He's not gone. But he doesn't have anything left.
But something changes. Maybe it's the sheer determination in his companion's voice, or the love he see's on the companion's dirty tear-stained face. But he goes from acceptance of the fall, to fighting for that life-saving hold. And once they're both invested, after a little struggle, they both make it back up on the ledge and out of the doomed cave.
He's already taken hold of it. I just have to take hold of him. Ignoring the danger below. Disregarding the mess I've made of and for myself. Just looking up to see the love, compassion, and determination on his face, and daring to take hold of him the way he's taken hold of me.