The problem was I just could not stay upright. Down I went again, my walking trousers becoming covered in sticky brown mud. The ground had turned in a matter of moments from a dusty path into a brown ice rink. The rain had come down like sheets suddenly and with only minimal warning, in a way that only really happens in a rainforest. My walking boots were no match for this smooth brown path – or perhaps I am not great at balancing. I just could not stop myself sliding down on to my bottom, again.
Our guide, Obe, in wellington boots with a machete, took pity on me and held my hand. It did feel such an embarrassment to be holding his hand allowing him to keep me from falling; he did do a good job of stabilizing me and helping me to feel slightly less ridicules as he steered me back down the mountain.
Then as we came closer to the edge of rainforest, I thought that I would be fine, and I said as much to Obe. How very silly of me! Down I went again! After that it was easier to give in and allow him to help.
When I take our grandson into town, he holds my hand when we cross the road, often I will tell him if he wants, he can let go and walk by himself. Frequently, he chooses to remain holding on to me, after all there is something reassuring about being held knowing that you are close to someone who loves and cares for you, a physical closeness. On this occasion I am the one supporting and keeping safe, my role reversed from the indignity of slippery mud.
Coming out of the O2 after a concert, the crush of bodies, being swept along in a wave from which there is no escape, holding on desperately to my son’s hand. If either of us let, go there might be no chance of finding each other for ages. When at the end of our tether, pushed about by circumstances outside of our control, feeling unable to deal with the pressures around us, feeling held by God and by those who care for us gives strength to continue through the waves.
Recently as part of communion my hands were held and a blessing given. A blessing given to all present, the link of connection of being held, and a reminder of being held by God. It made me consider again my trousers covered in mud, the determination I felt not to admit and ask for help. Then giving in and receiving the support and the assistance that I needed, the balance that I had been missing.
However, for some the touch of a hand is painful, anxiety inducing and threatening. One of the most compassionate hugs I received the giver never held me, but stood at a distance to hold me, kindness obvious in their concern. In the asking of another for permission to hold a hand, to give a hug we have already shown our care.
Or to quote Michael Forster’s hymn 615 in Singing the Faith –
‘Give me your hand, along the desert pathway,
Give me your love wherever we may go.’
There were many instances where Jesus touched those he healed, the hand of Jairus daughter as he raised her up. He placed mud over the eyes of a man born blind. Each healing encounter is different, some hands he held, others were given a word to heal them, others not even present with Jesus as they were healed.
A prayer
God, we do not find it easy to stop from slipping over, sometimes the path seems to be so uneven, and we cannot keep our balance. Help us to accept the hand, which is held out to us, providing the care we need. And when we can keep our footing, may we hold out our hand along the desert pathway to show the love of God in our daily walk.
Amen