One hand

A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’ Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’ (Mark 1:40-41)

It was just a hand, just a moment. I doubt it lasted two seconds, but days have gone by and I’m still thinking about it wondering why it still moves me.

A black-haired boy, no more than 6, returned to the pew after singing with his little choir in front of the congregation. He squirmed against his mother, his flop-haired head pressing into her right hip. She reached over and stroked his back, just once, soothing his impatience as the church service continued with communion.

I heard little of the communion liturgy. All my senses fixed on her hand resting motionless on his back as they stood together. The vision continues even now, warming my heart with the exquisite beauty of tenderness, the sacred splendor of love’s simplest act, precious and holy beyond words can tell.

Across the globe, mothers soothe their children millions of times every single day. Why this mother, this hand, on this day should startle my heart with its beauty is beyond me.

Perhaps it’s because I still remember many times I wanted to feel such a hand on my back when I was small and weak, scared and impatient.

Maybe it’s because I have never outgrown that need and know I never will. Maybe it’s because I’ve lost most of my need to pretend I’m any stronger or more together than I actually am.

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen and told the stories of children who needed a gentle hand to shelter them from brutalities most of us will never endure.

And maybe it’s because for one blessed moment I saw the love we all crave ... and the Love who reaches from eternity into time ... totally present ... in one mother’s hand, for all who have eyes to see.

David L. Miller