A Comforting Touch ©
by Michelle Whitehead

Can you imagine going years without experiencing the touch of another human being? No hugs? No tender moments of reassurance that you matter, let alone exist? I can’t.

Recently, I had the honor of experiencing firsthand the power of touch. It was a moment in my life that will forever change the way I process, perceive and especially pray.

December 13, 2008 presented an opportunity to serve those less fortunate, namely, the homeless. I had decided a few weeks earlier to volunteer my 12 year old son, Aaron, and I for Operation Care Dallas Christmas Gift being held at the Dallas Convention Center. Leading up to this day, I found myself reluctant, not wanting to attend, or maybe just plain lazy – justifying it by thinking they would never miss our presence. I could have never been more wrong.

Aaron and I were registered to serve in gift delivery. Coats, blankets, whatever was available.  Upon our arrival, the numbers of volunteers at this particular station were innumerable. I  decidedly asked Susie Jennings, the founder of Operation Care Dallas, where it was she needed us most. To my immediate dismay, she directed us to the foot washing area.  Overwhelmed with anxiety, I longed for my desire to stay home to have been our reality.

I understood washing the feet of homeless individuals to be a very humbling experience but I was in no way excited with our new assignment. Realizing I was setting an example for Aaron, I was resolved to “deal with it” otherwise, I ran the risk planting negative seeds into his head about sacrifice, service to others and overcoming ones’ fears. “Do as I say, not as I do,” has been replaced with “Live by example.” Drats!

As the ten o’clock hour rapidly approached, I began to prepare my assigned station. Baby  wipes were unwrapped, the lotion stocked, foot powder at hand, new socks folded neatly as  the ever important box of latex gloves closely governed my various paraphernalia.

Thousands of homeless began pouring into the Convention Center heading straight toward the coat and blanket distribution – a place I longed to be. As I nervously stood there waiting for my first “assignment,” Aaron wrestled with understanding his duties as a shoe runner. I was quick to offer his service in this capacity rather than the foot washing that befell me; an overly protective maternal judgment which will assuredly not be repeated in years to come.

Enter Charles.

A tall, thin built man, maybe 6’2”, with soft, kind eyes and ashen skin around the age of 65. I soon learned Charles had honorably served our country in Viet Nam. A tracheotomy valve inserted in his neck resulted in a muffled, whisper voice as he gently plugged its hole before each sentence. His right foot but a stump, as injuries in Viet Nam forced a partial amputation. I prayed he would not detect my nervousness. Little did I know that he, too, was struggling with my presence.

Looking into his eyes, I could see the shame he seemingly carried for his perceived  deformities. Immediately I knew it was not Charles who should be ashamed, but me.  Ashamed of my selfishness, my lack of desire to serve in whatever capacity God would have me, ashamed of neglecting the fact that Jesus himself washed feet. Who am I to question His purpose for me?  Humbly, I began to clean Charles’ feet. Still sensing a bit of apprehension on his part, I began with his amputated foot all the while reassuring him, “It’s okay…please  let me serve you…” As each touch was met with renewed sincerity, he slowly began to receive my offering. It was beautiful to see the joy this man derived from my  attentiveness as I continually gazed upon Charles’ growing delight. Without warning, he opened his eyes locking them on me. They were tired, yet  soft. Sad… yet full of joy. Heartbroken…but filled with hope. He sat upright in his  chair then reached down with his left hand toward my right cheek. With soulful  gentleness, he began stroking the side of my face like that of a loving father toward  his precious daughter. It was I who then dropped my shoulders, closed my eyes and drank in his loving, sincere touch. How long had it been since last he reached  out to another and was met with genuine acceptance? How long had it been since I reached out to someone who desperately needed it? Neither of which I could answer.

Having experienced a new found bond with one another, he sat back in the chair as I began applying lotion. Beyond immediate repair, his dangerously cracked skin  drank in what moisture they could. Seeing the condition of his ingrown, fungal toenails,  I commissioned the on-hand podiatrist to inspect the damage. Upon completion of  his examination, I continued by applying more lotion, carefully yet firmly massaging  his aching feet. As his weighted shoulders began to lighten and sweet eyes rested  peacefully, I watched as Charles’ lips parted and a long, relaxing breath quietly seeped through the tracheotomy hole. It was a sweet, sweet sound like none I had ever heard.

I can’t directly speak for Charles with any level of authority but I can comfortably say without reservation, he relished in the experience he’d had with us as we did with him. The power of human touch is absolutely amazing. I sit back every day and think of Charles. What it must have meant to him to experience the fulfillment of a simple, yet long awaited touch. I pray our time together brought to his life a sense of love, acceptance and peace, even if but for a brief moment.

I find myself reflecting on the power of Charles’ touch. A man most deemed to be destitute and hopeless, who selflessly reached out his hand to me offering his heartfelt thanks with sincere kindness and overflowing blessings.

As for Aaron, I pray his life will take root with a heart to serve. Upon leaving the event, he immediately stated his desire to return again next year. Two days following the conclusion of Operation Care, the Dallas metroplex was covered in a wintry blast of arctic air and precipitation. Arriving home from Bent Tree Monday evening, Aaron’s tear-filled eyes and broken heart met me at the door remembering the faces he had served Saturday. He listed them off, one by one, name by name, wondering if they were blessed enough to have gotten a bed that night in the shelter. Yet more questions I could not answer. There were only two things I knew to do to bring him comfort. The first was to pray and the second was to offer a comforting touch.

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