I wait
Centered in the cacophonous rush 
Listening intently
For quiet sounds to emerge
Rising above to ensnare me
Releasing me into multicolored prisms
Joy intertwines itself with life
I swirl in multidimensional shafts of light
Delivering me from the inharmonies of life
Here I want to reside
Worldy stings pull at me
Bringing me back to earth
I am left between the joy of living and the overwhelming tsunamis of life
But I am not alone.
Never have been.
Never will be.
There he is; the little old man, his reflective vest, and his silver walker. He’s usually on the sidewalk when I am getting ready to turn to go into my school. He’s moving at a good clip for someone who is using a walker. I notice his legs are strong and muscular. Every morning on my drive to work, I look for this little old man. When I see him I find myself thinking, “Way to go. You keep truckin’.” And inevitably I think, “I want to be him when I am that old.” I want to be moving at whatever pace my body will allow me to move.
I realize that as I age, my body changes. I have aches and pains I didn’t have when I was younger. I find I am tired more often. I want to be in bed early and up early, and I want my 8 hours of sleep. I have recently found that when I injure myself, I don’t know how I sustained the injury. I wake up, and I have pulled a muscle in my arm. How does this happen? I want to know what I did in order to feel the pain I feel. It’s just not right. It’s not fair. Why did God make my body this way? I did not appreciate the strength and health I had when I was younger, and now that I am older, I want that young body back. I know what I want to do with that young body.
This is the whole thing with life. You get older … you change. What you do with the change is up to you. I have a choice about how I am going to live out the second half of my life. I can give into the pain, the , the change and bemoan the fact that I am getting older. Or I can embrace it and use my life experience to become all I am meant to become. I want to “keep truckin'” like my little old man. He has inspired me. I don’t know him. But he has influenced me to keep moving my body when all I want to do is hit the alarm clock and snooze an hour more. Because I am sure that when I am his age, I will be thankful that my body is still moving, that my mind is functioning.
What I find even more fascinating is that he is affecting my life and we have never met. How often do I do that for others? Am I influencing others I don’t even know? What is it I am doing right now with my life that leaves a positive impact on other people? Every day I make contact with people I don’t know. That’s a hefty thought. What I do says more about who I am as a person than anything I can say. I want people to see me as a loving, caring person. I want people to see me as someone who will stand up and fight for what is right. I want people to see my actions as a child of God. Is that what I show?
Often I think I fall far short of those expectations. I make mistakes. I stay silent when I should speak about a wrong. I talk gossip when I should keep my mouth shut. It’s not that I am all bad, but what I do can impact someone else. I want to be a positive impact. I want to create a positive ripple in people’s lives.
I want to be the old man in the bright orange reflector, walking in the early morning with my silver walker. I want to influence people in ways I don’t even know I am influencing them. I just want to”‘Keep on Truckin'”
I remember Grandma DeKezel,
her colostomy bag full and oozing.
I remember smiling and chattering
and easing her discomfort
of being dependent upon my hands.
I remember her talk of sex
and the loathing she had when Grandpa
would touch her – until she was 30.
I remember the smile sliding across her face
the twinkle in her eyes
as she yearned for Grandpa then.
Sex was not a sin.
I remember her finger pointing at the cabinet
“Take the white China with the yellow flowers.
Count it all and be sure it’s there.”
And I remember nodding no,
“Keep it until next time I am here.”
I remember the silent, arguing stares
over disappearing treasures
before she was laid to rest.
I remember the harsh words zinging overhead
because her children didn’t finish unfinished words
in the space of her ensuing death.
I remember the chasm created
in the wake of her death.
I remember thinking
“They lost the chance to know their mother
in the grace of ensuing death.”
“They lost the chance for her to speak unspoken words
that could not be said.”
My memory will never forget
knowing my grandma
Her hands were bony and strong. Not the hands of youth with its demand to have power and control. No, her hands were strong from living life and a “hold onto me” strength. Those hands held onto me through the entire benediction. At the end there was that extra squeeze. I give it too. It’s the squeeze that says, “You belong. You are part of this community, and God will be with you this week.”
Holding hands allows you the opportunity to say more than words can. I had a very dear friend of mine stop me to thank me for praying for her. She had approached me several weeks ago for prayer over some medical tests she was having done. But in the midst of her thanking me to pray for her, she appologized for not asking me how I was doing. I took her hands in mine and told her I understood. I held her hands because I wanted her to know how much she meant to me. I took her hands to reassure her that she did not need to apologize to me. I took her hands in mine to let her know I loved her and it was my privilage to pray for her.
Holding hands with my 9 year old son allows me to tell him how much I love him. He is at an age where he does not want his mother to kiss him or hug him in front of his friends. Yet he will let me hold his hand while we walk together … even in front of his friends. I treasue this time. I treasue this hand holding because it is my way of telling him he belongs; he is part of me.
It is in our hands that we offer prayer and petition to God. It is in our hands when we are able to heal or to hurt others. Our hands express so much of what we cannot. Christ used His hands to heal, to touch, to heal people. I want to reach out to others in the same way. Sometimes I am in situations where I cannot hold someone’s hand. But I can touch them. I can put my hand on their arm or shoulder. I find myself doing this with my students. It is in my touch that I convey to them that they belong. They are worth more than what they think. My students are worthy of a simple touch.
Hands speak so much. They convey strength and love and hope and trust. Just the act of holding onto someone else’s hand can inspire someone to be more and do more. What are your hands going to say about you this week?
Faith Journies 