The Touch of a Hand

 

Her hands were soft, the wrinkles and grooves rubbed smooth from years of use. She clasped my one hand between both of hers. Her body was turned towards mine in total attention. Her listening ears were turned on.  My mind went back in an instant to another place, a kitchen table, another time, when I was young, and another pair of hands.

My goodness! I couldn’t stop from tearing up!! Never had anyone in the past few years held my hand that way, my Grammie’s special way of giving you full attention, borrowed by another. She used to give your hand a pat for emphasis about a particular point that you had to hear. Sometimes when she wanted to let you know how much you were loved, the pats became their own rhythm, usually in a string of 4 or 5.

In an instant, that Grammie  hole in my heart widened and the gaping chasm yearned for another moment at her kitchen table, never to be satisfied. That love is gone forever here in this earth, but it makes me want to go HOME to see her there.

Poor Wayfaring Stranger

I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger
While traveling through, this world of woe.
Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright land, to which I go.
I’m going there to see my father
I’m going there no more to roam;
I’m just a going over Jordan
I’m just a going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather o’er me
I know my way is rough and steep;
Yet beauteous fields lie just before me
Where God’s redeemed, their vigils keep
I’m going there to see my mother
She said she’d meet me when I come;
I’m just a going over Jordan
I’m just a going over home.

I want to wear a crown of Glory
When I get home to that good land
I want to shout Salvation’s story
In concert with the Blood-Washed Band

I’m going there to meet my Saviour
To sing his praise forever more;
I’m just a going over Jordan
I’m just a going over home

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