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April, 2006
Holding the Hand of God
In the language of death, she was declining, moving inward, her gaze
focusing on an ever- deepening interior landscape. Her physical
systems slowing, swallowing was becoming difficult, her breathing
shallow, punctuated by lengthening periods of stillness. Her skin was
blotchy and darkened. Time now was measured in days, not weeks and
continuous care was ordered to help the family cope.
I was a visitor in her house, a placeholder for her husband who
needed to run errands on a Saturday morning. He gave her the
anti-anxiety medicine before he left and said she would probably just sleep.
I pulled my chair close. Her bed was the central feature in the tiny
living room. Except for a confusion of yes for no and no for yes,
language had left her, absorbed by the cancerous tumor in her brain.
Words left me too, that morning, the need to say and do replaced by
the need to be there for her in whatever way she needed, but how?
What should I say, or do, or not, at this moment when she could no
longer give me cues?
Leaning closer, I closed my eyes and slipped into the space between
us silently asking for guidance. I do not remember if I prayed, I may
have called to Mary in the ancient words that accompany supplication
and comfort at ‘the hour of death’ I do not remember. I
remember noticing the stillness of the room broken by the rhythm of
the oxygen machine moving air into her dying body. I remember falling
deeper into the space between us reaching for her in my mind and
heart. I remember hearing a voice,”Hold her hand.” The
voice rose from within, compelling me to take this small action. It
was not my voice that I obeyed.
I opened my eyes and reached through the carefully placed covers and
found her left hand, the last limb which she still controlled.
Gently, I inserted my fingers into her curled fist. Gently she
responded with a slight squeeze. The chill of her fingers burned into
the heat of mine. For a long time I studied her fingers, noticing the
delicate oval shape of her nails, the symbols of a second love set in
opal and gold that marked her place in the heart of her husband. Her
‘Soul mate” she had told me. The history of her life held
in the tender gentleness of her fingers, a nurse, a mother, a
caretaker whose turn it was to be taken care of. I saw these things
and more, the tinge of blue, the transparency of skin, the
evaporation of spirit and its accompanying chill.
The warmth of my hand enveloped hers and I closed my eyes again,
aware of our two hands, aware of the connection, aware of the
tightening and the loosening. I moved my awareness into my heart,
allowing the touch to speak, allowing the heart to speak. As I sat
there in silence, a voice arose from within me. It was not my voice.
It was not my thought or my mind. It was beyond my own capacity to
hear, or speak or formulate. From everywhere within me, from
everywhere at once, I heard, “You are holding the hand of God.”
The truth of the words resonated in each cell of my being. Tears of
gratitude fell from my eyes as I was moved beyond, beyond my limited
ability to explain, beyond my ability to express what I felt and
sensed and knew with every atom of my being “You are holding the
hand of God.” The voice repeated over and over. I opened my eyes
and saw her looking both at me and through me, a single tear fell
from her eye. The impact of the moment was paralyzing. Time stopped.
I could do nothing, needed to do nothing, everything reduced to the
single perfect awareness, her hand, my hand, God’s hand. The
simple act of holding her hand had become an act of transcendence.
I told this story to one person and they were moved to tears. I told
this story to another and they said, “Why do you think you
didn’t hear that when you were cleaning up dog poop? When
pressed, she said, “I don’t understand the word God.”
I do not understand God either, the mystery of our creation at the
hands of a guiding intelligence has never been fully explained nor
understood to my satisfaction. This glimpse of God which I was gifted
deepens the mystery really, reaching out to me in the form of an
imperative, “Hold her hand.” So I choose to take the
symbolism, that God is our true nature, that all hands are God’s
hands and I remember; her life, her touch, her constant gratitude for
even the smallest kindness. I take that knowledge and slip it like a
ring around my finger, a symbol of a love that is in us and with us,
a symbol of the unknowable, the mystery that is at the heart of all
our yearning, the longing to hold the hand of God.
Kate Dechard
March 22, 2006 |
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