Holding Hands

I gently sat down next to him. He wanted me to. He didn't say so but I could tell by his smile. Slowly, he placed his hand over mine. The touch was light, soft, and not clingy at all. I was surprised.

The youth and I visited a nursing home as part of our Lenten retreat. The residents were playing bingo. For many of us, it was the first time in such a facility. The atmosphere could be overwhelming and I delicately prepared the teens beforehand as much as possible. Even so, my table partner had just shooed away two of the boys with bared teeth. I was proud that my youth understood this elderly gentleman was locked in a lonely world of his own. He somehow felt intimidated with the visit of over 20 kids to his home and his bingo game. I thought he wanted me to go away too. And then he smiled.

As his hand rested on mine, I thought of another hand that once held mine. The gesture was almost unconscious. We were rushing to help unload some stuff for the school. I was a little slower and so she extended her hand. The pebbles beneath our shoes faded as I looked at the hand. I have seen it many times before when we worked together on homework, blew dandelions all over our front yard, and ate cơm with gà kho. Yet, we did not hold hands because this was America. Little girls held hands not young ladies.

I held her hand. It was light, soft, and not clingy. She gave me a small squeeze and we hurried onto the delivery truck.

All these years, she did not hold me tight to herself but let me fly wherever my dreams called me. When I came back, my stories dwelt softly in the hollow of her hand and heart. Sirach was right. A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one finds a treasure. (6:14) And then, on the days when I wonder what God is really like, I remember that day we held hands.

My table partner smiled at me again. It was a knowing peaceful smile. We didn't talk much since his pronunciation was very garbled. I wasn't quite sure if he understood my small talk either. There was a gauze bandage on his left ear and it was dated in permanent black marker. He didn't need to talk. His hand resting on mine was light, soft, and not clingy.

He was not clinging to me because he needed the attention. He did not invite me to sit next to him because he was lonely. The youth and I came to the nursing home to give Jesus. I found myself holding hands with Jesus.

ps. Photo from http://www.sxc.hu/