Hand Holding, Things Held, and Being Held
It’s been ten years since I entered ordained ministry. One day when I served as a chaplain on campus I remember expressing resentment about “having to hold people’s hands.” My resentment came from what seemed to me to be simple matters of decision making. Never mind the fact that I often sought out counsel from mentors, professors, and pastors to help me through my tough times. I sometimes felt entitled because I had “difficult” or “special” issues—things that were very real to me. I deserved hand holding…
I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.
Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.
As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.
As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.
While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.
In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.
I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.
I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.
Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.
As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.
As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.
While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.
In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.
I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.
posted by Chaplain (CPT) Fokas at 6:37 AM
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