Holding Hands

My first memory of holding hands was walking down a country road in Jerome, Idaho.  My mother and I were walking to get a pail of milk for the family.  She had my hand in one and a pail in the other.  I was probably 3 or 4 years old at the time.  I remember having a feeling of belonging.

I remember holding my sibling's hands as we helped each other or walked together.  Mutual guidance through treacherous years of growing up.  We still hold hands but more in a metaphoric way, I guess.

I would get the croup in a very bad way when I was young.  My parents would hold my hand to comfort me as I felt I would cough my insides out.

My next memory of holding hands was with girls. Ugh, I know.  I remember the warm and exciting feeling of holding my girlfriend's hand as I walked her home from school every day my junior and senior year in high school.  If you have heard Sting's song, "Walking on the Moon", you know exactly how I felt.  I still get a thrill holding her hand.

At Sunday School class, Janice Ward and I would hold hands.  It was a different feeling as one of friendship rather than romance.

I held my son's hands as they grew up...helping to guide them as we walked through their growth and journey to adulthood.  I miss those little children.  I think they survived my attempt at parenting quite well.  Now they hold my hand.

When my father was dying, I would sit next to his chair and hold his hand for as long as I could.  I was trying to receive transmissions of his knowledge. love and hope from his soul.  He still holds my hand.

Hold someone's hand whenever you can.  Or allow them to hold yours.

Yeah, I know.