Holding Hands

In light of recent events in my life, I began to ponder what can make a certain gesture so powerful. It may be apparent by the title of this post what that gesture is to which I am referring. What is it that makes holding hands special? I can imagine some naysayer expressing his cynical distaste for something which he may find to be petty and uninteresting, and I understand where he is coming from. As people, we long for some idealized vision of love and union, something grand, everlasting, and... big, showy. In fact, I heard a young man express something along those lines at Black Dog Cafe the other day. He said, "I want to have that relationship where years down the line, she and I are not only sleeping in the same bed, but in the middle of it, together." While I consider myself an idealist to a degree, I think I understand reality enough to know that the young man's statement is a description of something that simply isn't possible on this earth. I don't mean that 30 years down the line he won't lay in the middle of his bed with his wife, because that's not what he meant in the first place. What he meant was: "I want to feel connected, I want to have a visceral, spiraling love all the time, from a person." I don't think true love is like that, and whatever it is like, I don't think it can be had in full from a human being. I think love is humble, self emptying, vulnerable, and sublime (read 1 Corinthians 13), and to me, that is what makes a gesture as simple as holding hands one that is honest, intimate, and far more real that what that young man expressed.

Let me explain the situation to you, and hopefully you can share in some way what I mean:

Two people meet, not randomly, but to them it feels that way. They feel some sort of attraction, and decide it's worth a shot. The man has been relieved of a serious relationship for about a year, having a few small, failed attempts at love during that time- awkward situations and dashed hopes, albeit superficial ones- and is understandably slightly cynical, but is trying to keep an open mind. He is chained by inaction, or so he feels, but this time is different. He really is going to do something this time. And the woman has never dated before, so this is new for her, and battling some urges, she goes against herself and plays it cool to let the man do his work. So in the following week after they meet, they hang out three or four seperate times. The next week is similar, but there is a date thrown in, and the third week sees more time spent together. Their time is fun, lighthearted, yet revealing and honest, and they are both on the same page. They are a bit hesitant, because they haven't known each other very long at all, and don't want to rush into anything foolishly. They spend time in prayer, petitioning God for the strength to lean on His promises of peace, and the wisdom to make whatever time they spend together acceptable to Him, because every day, every action, and every decision is an opportunity to glorify God and to make an impact in this life and the next, and a budding relationship is no different.
It has been three weeks, approximately, since they met, and they go on a fine date to a local lake, for a picnic by the water on a suprisingly warm December day. They make sandwiches, fresh and light, with tomatoes, basil, and mozzerella cheese, some olive oil, and salt and pepper, all spread out on a bagguette. They drink fruit nectars and bask in the sun, talking, but also being silent to enjoy Creation and each other's company. On occasion they look at each other, without saying anything, and just laugh. After lunch, they move to another more secluded part of the lake, and she reads aloud a short story for one of her classes, while he sketches in her sketchbook and simply closes his eyes to relax and listen. They are interrupted on several occasions by mysterious splashes in the water, and one of the most beautiful sights they could have seen. The sun was setting, and the golden light was illuminating a line of trees across the lake, and the brilliant white birds which lighted amongst the branches. The sky behind the birds was a darkening grey, and sight was like stars, just... moving, dancing, singing in their own outdoor theatre. When she finished the story, she began to sing, and sprang up from the ground, twirling in circles. The man followed suit, and held out his hands. She held on, and they spun in circles briefly. When they stopped, the light was low, and they threw their jackets on with the declining temperature. They stood there, obviously with things on their mind, and she began to say something, but stopped. He inquired, but did not push. After a few minutes staring into the fading foliage, she asked him what he was thinking. He told her he was wondering what she wanted to say. So she obliged and expressed to him that she was uncertain what to do now, since the mood was obviously becoming more romantic. He voiced his ponderings on the same subject, and hesitantly told her that he wanted to hold her hand, and she wondered if he would attempt to do so that evening.

So he did.

And there, he reached out his hand and slid it into hers, and they embraced, these two small extensions of their conciousness, an outer realm of their physical shell, vulnerable. It was quiet, it was joyous, and it was honest. It was pure and he was nervous, and in that short time from when they first held hands to when he walked her to her doorstep was more real than any overblown love song or Casablanca type film.

And how does he feel since then? Peaceful, content, and trusting the God who gave him this blessing to continue working great things in his life and hers.

In Christ.