Sunday, February 9, 2014

Her Old Hands

I sit next to Miss A every Sunday morning during church service at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church.

I greet her with a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and a hug. She squeezes me right back asking, "How are you, baby?" We sit mostly in silence during service, mainly because the music is so loud we can't hear one another over it. There is a moment during service where Pastor announces, "It's prayer time. Come to the altar." People will rise up from the pews and kneel on the marble steps of the altar, or sit with others to pray. Miss A holds open her soft, wrinkled hand to me, inviting me to pray with her. While the speaker prays out loud, Miss A whispers, "Thank you Jesus. Thank you, Lord," and I sit silently, holding her hand, immersed in love. I squeeze her hand, feeling the strength still left in her arthritis ridden body, and push beyond my own circumstances, my own restless thoughts, my own leftover bitterness, frustration, and disappointment to pray peace over Miss A, sending light and love to my parents, grandparents, aunts, friends and neighbors.

Miss A reminds me of the simpleness of love.

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