THE POWER OF A SIMPLE TOUCH
Last Sunday in church a lady came up to me after the service and asked if I was new. No. I’d been attending for fifteen years. I wasn’t upset with her. After all, I’ve done the same to others. But sadness coursed through me as an issue I’ve struggled with from youth resurfaced with a vengeance.
I think I’m invisible.
Growing up, although I knew my parents loved me, I rarely saw it demonstrated. Dad was ill, spending most of his time in seclusion, or admitted to the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. Mom was exhausted taking care of five kids and a sick husband. Being naturally quiet and shy, I sometimes wondered if mom knew I lived under the same roof.
I must be invisible.
The awful feeling went on throughout high school. It hurt when a fellow classmate couldn’t remember my name. Did anyone even know I existed?
I really am invisible.
Then it happened.
I came home from school upset over an issue I no longer recall. With compassion in her eyes, my mother reached a hand up and brushed the hair off my teenage forehead. That tender act has stayed with me my whole life. It was unusual. Rare. Unexpected. Cherished. I knew that day, without a doubt, mom loved me. She was a remarkably strong woman for the life she was dealt. She’d given all she could give.
Never underestimate the power of a simple touch. It can be life changing.