Peace

There's a point in our church service where we pass the peace.   We stand up and greet those around us with a handshake and say "God's peace" to each other.  There are hugs with friends and a kiss to my own family.   Truth be told, it stretches me as a closet introvert.   I'm comfortable greeting those whom we sit near every Sunday but seldom do I cross the room to others.

One Sunday about three years ago I was jolted when I noticed an older man in the back of the church.  His pale yellow-pink coloring, lack of hair, and larger body frame made me think it was my dad.  My breath caught and my brain caught up with my eyes as a wave of emotion that included the always present undercurrent of loss and regret passed through me.  How many phone calls did I cut short because dad was retelling me a story from years ago, or how many weekends that I could have visited that I did not because I wanted to sleep in, or go out with friends? 

The next time I saw him, I made a point to walk his way and reach out my hand to extend the peace.  He casually took my hand and it was shocking that his skin had a familiar paper-thin, but warm feel.  As I returned to my seat with my own family, again my eyes were moist with a feeling of connection to my dad.

So, now I'm a thief.  When I see him, I make a point to shake his hand and pass the peace.   I don't know his name and while I hope he's a happy person in a happy life, I don't need to know him.   I just want to touch him, and I know I am stealing from him.  The hand I hold for those three seconds isn't his, it's my dad.  That kind grasp and minute squeeze is a hug, a stolen touch of my father across the boundaries of life and death. 

I am careful not to be overly effusive when I take from this stranger what I want.  I give him a warm smile but no bigger than the people I greet on the aisles as I make my way towards him.  I don't want to scare him or let him know that I've got ulterior motives.  When I greet him with my "Good morning, God's peace." I'm really saying "thank you".

Dad would be 81 this week.  I wonder which story he would tell me when I called him Tuesday to wish him a happy birthday.  It would be nice to hear his voice as he talked through current events,  told me I'm doing a good job of parenting, or teased us about having an electronic gadget for every need.   We won't have those conversations ever again, but I have a secret.   When things get back to normal and we can attend church in person, I get to shake his hand and carry that familiar touch in my heart.