the power of touch
September 15, 2009 | Faith: Knowing Christ
I take for granted the number of touches I receive. The warmth of my husband’s cheek against my own. A daughter’s hug. A friend’s open arms.
A long time ago when I was a teen our youth group gathered together every Sunday to go to a local nursing home. We sang. We prayed. But mostly we touched. Hands reached for ours, and whether we felt shy or not, those hands held tight.
When you are older and you lose a loved one, touch may be the first thing you miss. A kiss. Holding hands. An arm around your waist. Someone reaching for a strand of hair and running it through their fingers.
It’s why I sit close to my husband’s grandmother when we visit. She was married for nearly 60 years to the man she loved. He passed away a few years ago. At 94 she loves to tell stories, and every time I walk in I’m greeted with, “well, there’s Suzie!”. I sit near her. I touch her hands, her arm. I hug her when I come in and when I leave.
Because touch is powerful.
But there’s another touch that I pray I’ll never take for granted. It’s the touch I felt the first time I encountered Christ. It’s a transforming touch. One that nudges me. Teaches me. Shelters me. Empowers me. Holds me tight.
Recently I met a new friend. We sat together at an event and she told me her story. Drugs. Rehab. Failure. Children. Lost relationships.
I couldn’t put her story with the joy I saw in her face.
“That’s only half the story,” she confided.
She told me about the day she reached out to God, in spite of her failure, in spite of what others thought about her. And he touched her.
Daily God continues to touch her thoughts, her heart, her once-broken life.
That touch didn’t instantly heal her. But pieces of her life that were fragmented fell into place over time, creating a beautiful portrait. Piece by piece, touch by touch. She was made whole.
Maybe you need that touch, too.
It’s for you, just like it was for me and my new friend, and it’s by the One who loves you most.
A woman who had suffered a condition of hemorrhaging for twelve years– a long succession of physicians had treated her, and treated her badly, taking all her money and leaving her worse off than before–had heard about Jesus.
She slipped in from behind and touched his robe. She was thinking to herself, “If I can put a finger on his robe, I can get well.” The moment she did it, the flow of blood dried up. She could feel the change and knew her plague was over and done with.
At the same moment, Jesus felt energy discharging from him. He turned around to the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said, “What are you talking about? With this crowd pushing and jostling you, you’re asking, “Who touched me?’ Dozens have touched you!”
But he went on asking, looking around to see who had done it. The woman, knowing what had happened, knowing she was the one, stepped up in fear and trembling, knelt before him, and gave him the whole story.
Jesus said to her, “Daughter, you took a risk of faith, and now you’re healed and whole. Live well, live blessed! Be healed…”
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I have always been a ‘toucher’, too. It is my primary love language. I just think the human touch is irreplaceable. Warmth, comfort, safety … but the touch of Jesus is the ultimate touch. I’m so grateful for it. His touch in worship, in quiet time with Him, in the companionship with my husband, in His provision. My heart overflows.
September 17th, 2009 at 12:58 am