The Power of Touch

Photo by Joey Yu on Unsplash

This year, as I journey through Eastertide (the 50 days between Easter and Pentecost), I'm struck by the importance of touch in Jesus' post-resurrection encounters. 

During this time last year the reality of the pandemic became clear and people, the world over, were forced to come to terms with a loss of touch. No more handshakes, no hugs, no holding the hands of our dying loved ones. In this way, many of us have experienced for a year or more, what Jesus and his followers experienced during the three days he lay in the tomb. 

Theologians note the theme of touch is important in these gospel accounts because the disciples need to know that Jesus isn't a ghost, that physical, not just spiritual resurrection is at the heart of what's transpired. 

But I'm seeing things from a different angle in this mid-pandemic year. The importance of touch post resurrection, reminds me that Jesus had close physical relationships with people throughout the entirety of his life and ministry. No only did he regularly touch the sick and untouchable, he also reclined with his disciples at dinner tables. He bumped knees, patted shoulders. He hugged. He shared physical camaraderie with those closest to him. 

So it's no wonder that post-resurrection experiences include his body as well. Jesus shows his hands and side to the disciples, he eats fish and wipes his mouth with the back of a scarred hand, he blesses bread and tears it in two. He kneels on a sandy beach, arranging drift wood to build a fire, cooking fish on pronged sticks then distributes it among the disciples just back from fishing. 

In these stories - in Mary Magdalene's apparent bear hug for Jesus in the garden, in tactile Thomas' brazen declaration about his need to not just see, but touch the risen Christ, and in Jesus' free acceptance and participation in it all - I find affirmation of the pain and reality of our loss of touch in this past year. I find affirmation that touch and bodily presence matters. I find myself knowing that Jesus understands the loss we've experienced and our longing and excitement at the potential to return to normal physical interactions. 

For this, I am grateful.

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For Contemplation:

How do you respond to fact of Jesus' bodily existence? Read a few of the pos-resurrection narratives and notice what actions Jesus is performing - is he walking, talking, touching? In what ways is his physical body present?

Spend some time in prayer with Jesus. Imagine him physically present. How does he sit - beside you? Across from you? In what ways does Jesus' physical presence impact the way you are with your own body?

The Day After (#SmallWonder Link-up)

The rain this morning sounds like sleet.  It’s the Monday after Resurrection day.  Plundered Easter baskets spew plastic grass on these old wood floors and the hollow chocolate bunnies have lost their ears and faces. 

The oldest boy is sick, again, even though he's already on antibiotics.  This winter he barely clears one hurdle before hitting the next.  Today I’ll call the Dr. and leave a message explaining the latest symptoms and we’ll probably head into the office again for more tests which will likely confirm a virus.  

Maybe this is how it always is, the day after resurrection and the day after that - the chaos, the mess, the uncertain way forward, this working out of our salvation.  This is not to say nothing has changes, but what has changed is still only the seed of what will be and we are, again, gardeners tending its slow and steady progress. 

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We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

To Experience Resurrection (A Poem)

You have to return to the tomb

to experience resurrection. 

Return to the place where once

you knew without doubt

all hope was gone, the last

dying gasp of breath expelled.

Then silence, stillness

and the great tearing open

of sky and earth. 

The first sign of spring

is the revelation of all

that’s died.  Snow’s clean

slate hides decay,

but when the sun’s warmth rises

its first disclosure is the depth

of loss – the grass,

brown and trampled, barren

broken limbs scattered, earth

exposed and the empty stretch

of field filled with brown stalks

of decomposition.

This is the time of waiting,

the time in which we grow

weary and lose heart. 

You have to watch the barren

earth, pull back brown leaves,

lean close scanning the hidden

places.  You have to stand beside

the stone, Martha would tell us,

your trembling hand pressed against       

its cold, hard surface.  You have to enter

the dark cave, Peter whispers, not knowing

what you’ll find. 

You have to sit through the long,

dark night to see the first light of morning,        

to feel the sharp intake of breath

as the sky’s closed eye, cold and gray

cracks open slowly, then with growing

determination.  This is what you must do

to experience resurrection. 

This post is linked with the High Calling.

Seeing the Psychiatrist (I Don't Want to Forget)

“The babysitter’s coming tomorrow.”  I say as we shuffle back and forth in the bathroom getting ready for bed.  “I have to see my Psychiatrist,” I add, drawing out the word in a way that makes it sound fancy.
 

Even now, seven months after hospitalization, I’m still uncomfortable with the idea of being one of those people.

“When was your last appointment?” my husband asks from his seat on the radiator, speaking over and around the toothbrush in his mouth.

“Um, I’m not sure.  Maybe February?” 

At the sink, I pull my toothbrush from the cup and squeeze out a daub of toothpaste.  “It’s kinda silly, I still have prescriptions I haven’t filled because I’m not going through them as quickly as I could.”  In fact I’d been tempted to cancel the appointment this week – it felt inconvenient, coming on my kids’ first day of spring break and unnecessary as I really didn’t need any refills. 

After a pause, I add, “I think it’s important, though, to help me remember.”  Then, in case he doesn’t know what I mean, I continue, “I was in the hospital, ya know?  It was a big deal.  It is a big deal.  I don’t want to forget how hard it was, how close we were to the edge.”

The edge of what, I do not say, but I feel it.  The edge of darkness, the edge of all-consuming fear.

“Do you feel like you forget?” he asked. 

“Yes, I do.”

I forget because I don’t want to remember.  I forget because no one wants to talk about it, hardly anyone asks.  I forget because I’m afraid – afraid that it happened in the first place, afraid it could happen again.

The pill bottles help me to remember.  Pulling the two red bottles from the cabinet, putting in the extra time to cut pills down to size for the days and weeks ahead, feels like a welcome humility.  

I continue to see a counselor, perhaps more often than she thinks I need.  Those hours set aside on the calendar remind me to look at myself, to come up for air and do a systems’ check. 

And the appointments with the psychiatrist who listens briefly before handing out her scripts, they help too.  Driving up to the building, I enter the same door I excited that bright August day.  Every time I face that place, I face the past; I face a part of myself that paid a price for being neglected for far too long and I remember.  

I don’t want to forget again. 

It may seem counter-intuitive or self-punishing in some strange way, but in the Christian tradition we acknowledge remembrance as a necessary part of the journey toward healing, toward resurrection.  This is what we do in Lent and Holy Week.  We re-walk the steps, re-read the texts, take, break and eat the wine and the bread.  We re-enact the suffering and saving so that we will remember.  

We don't want to forget.  

We tell the story of our own bondage and salvation; we return to the tomb if only to remember how cold and deep the darkness was before we saw the first piercing shaft of light. 

May your remembering be blessed.  May you find the courage to not forget.  

Even More Undignified (a Poem and a Playdate)

What is serious to men is often trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as "play" is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate, the Lord plays and diverts himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance. . . . we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds, and join in the general dance." - Thomas Merton in New Seeds of Contemplation

“I will become even more undignified than this.” - King David regarding his dancing half-naked in the streets (2 Samuel 6:22).  

You ride in large loops circling 

the L-shaped curve of the driveway. 
Perched on your tall, blue bike,
it's pedal, pedal, pedal, coast and turn 
in that small space under the Indian-summer 
sky.  There’s a kitten zipped into your hoodie, 
black face and whiskers peaking out as you 
pedal, pedal, pedal, coast and turn. 

Right there, between the green grass 
and ceiling of blue, you feel the freedom 
and joy that has been missing for too long.  
Not only do you feel it but, for once, 
you value it, holding it as a prize, 
a pearl of great price.  The Day Care parents 
come and go next door, moving from work 
to work and you – soaring under the golden 
sky, the soft fur of a sweet being warm 
against your chest – you don’t care who sees.   

Laura Boggess' new book Playdates with God: Hvaing a Childlike Faith in a Grownup World was released this week.  Are you ready to meet God with the heart of a child?  Visit her blog where she is blogging 31 Days of Playdates  for the month of October.

 This is our other kitten, all zipped up happy and snug in my hoodie while I work on cooking dinner.  The other night she sat on my shoulder for a long time watching me peel potatoes.  The joy of kittens is restoring, for me, some of the joy of my childhood and for that I'm deeply grateful. 

Every New Arrival (Lazarus)

 

In mid August I spent some time in a local Behavioral Health Hospital due to the sudden onset of severe panic attacks.  I continue to write about it as a way of processing the experience.

 

Every new arrival receives the same tour – 

here's your room, your room mate.

This is the nurses’ station, the meds window; 

here's the bathroom and shower,

a towel and washcloth, a blanket, 

all bleached white.  

The newest is heavyset, balding, 

with stringy dark hair.  He wears jeans

and hospital-issue paper top, 

the kind they hand out in the ER

when the clothes you wore upon arrival 

were torn or bloodstained. 

He carries the rest of his belongings 

in a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. 

A shower is the first order of business 

for every new arrival, then meds. 

Standing behind him at the window 

I notice the band aids on his wrists.

No one is ready for eye contact 

on their first day, each one jittery 

like a wild animal, trapped and wary. 

But on the day I will be discharged

he shows up in Group and tells us all his name.   

His words come slow like his voice has gotten lost 

somewhere deep within his body, a small sound that fell 

deep into a chasm of fear or pain or despair, but now 

he speaks, sitting at the end of the table, 

every syllable a step toward resurrection.

He is Lazarus, we all are, here in this tomb 

of dying and learning to live again,

and the therapist at the opposite end 

of the table calls us out each by name. 

This post is linked with Playdates With God  and Unforced Rhythms.