Touch

For devos on my dorm floor tonight, instead of a lesson, our RA is giving everyone a massage.  "Six Minutes in Heaven" she is calling it.  She just finished with me.  It was wonderful.  It was so relaxing and refreshing.  While I was laying there and she was rubbing my back, it suddenly struck me how amazing physical touch is.

Physical touch is my primary love language.  I love hugs.  There have been times when I've been exhausted and ready to give up on my homework, and someone has come in my room and put her hand on my shoulder or given me a hug, and suddenly, I find I have energy to keep going.  There is nothing that uplifts me more.

Even when I was little I loved being touched.  There was nothing I loved more than having someone (usually my mom or my Aunt Wendy) "tickle my back." They would run their nails in circles on my back and up my neck and into my hair.  I know why cats purr, and if I were able to, I'm sure that's what sound I would have made.  It was truly like paradise to me.

I hear about premature babies that are so sick the doctors don't think they'll make it, but someone will come along and touch them and they get better.  It blows me away, although I shouldn't be surprised.  If physical touch brings life to me, why not to them?

By the same token though, there is nothing that drains me more than physical touch.  I love working at VBS camps during the summer.  I love the little kids.  However, at the end of three hours of holding twelve little hands and snuggling twelve little bodies close whenever we sit down--three in my lap, two on my back and seven squeezing as close as they can--I am drained.  I am so exhausted.  There is nothing that empties me of every ounce of strength as much as pouring physical affection into someone else. 

I was thinking about that tonight as my RA rubbed my back.  She was pouring herself into me, rubbing away all the aches and tension, and she was going to do this for each of the 28 girls on our floor.  I was being strengthened by it, but I wondered how tired she would be after massaging all of us.

Then I thought of Jesus.  He almost always, if not every single time, healed people by touching them.  He touched the eyes of the blind.  He touched the ears of the deaf.  He touched lepers.  He touched so many people.  The one I am most reminded of though, is the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. 

She had tried everything.  She had seen so many doctors she'd lost count.  She'd tried every remedy anyone could think of--some of them twice--but nothing helped.  The worst part was the nature of her disease.  She had a bleeding disorder, and under the Jewish law, that meant she was unclean.  No one could touch her.  This had lasted twelve years.  No one had touched her for twelve years.  

But there was this Teacher coming, this Jesus, and rumor had it that he healed people.  He touched them, and they were made well.  If only she might see him!  If only she could get close enough.  No one had to know, she just had to touch him.


She made her way through the crowd, all of them pressed tight and close against Jesus.  Her uncleanness helped; no one wanted to touch her, so they would let her through.  There were so many though, and Jesus was in a hurry!  How was she ever going to catch him?!  But it was her last chance, and she had to make it.  

Finally, she caught a glimpse of him.  With one last, desperate shove she made it to his side.  Reaching out her hand, she touched his cloak.  

She wasn't sure what she'd expected--she wasn't even sure what she'd felt--but she knew she'd been healed.  She would slip away now. She dropped back.


But he had stopped.  "Who touched me?" he asked.  


"What do you mean who touched you?" his followers asked.  "Everyone is touching you!  How can you ask who touched you?" 

"Someone touched me," he said.  "I felt power go out of me." 


His eyes fell on her, and she couldn't keep quiet.  She fell at his feet.  "I knew if I touched you, I'd be well," she said.  "I've been sick for twelve years." She kept her head down.  She was so ashamed.  How could she meet his eyes? 


He stooped, took her hands, and raised her to her feet.  He put his rough, calloused hands on her head.  It was the first time anyone had touched her for twelve years.  "Daughter, your faith has healed you.  Go in peace," he said.
(This story can be found in Luke 8:42-48.)

What must it have been like, that first touch?  After twelve years without one single person touching her, what was it like?  I can't get my head around it.  The comparisons I have are so much smaller.  I was filled by a touch after going maybe a day.  Maybe just a few hours.  What was it like to her?

I don't know if I'll ever comprehend that, but I know it must've been amazing.  Besides, it was Jesus.  Can you imagine being touched by Jesus?  I for one can't wait.

And so, tonight, after the lovely massage from my generous RA and having my heart filled with thoughts of the wonderful touch of my Jesus, I can only be thankful.  Thankful for people who touch me, for hugs, for back-tickling, for simple gestures like a hand on my shoulder.  I am thankful for the gift God gave us in physical touch.

Mostly I am thankful for a God who gave up everything, who poured himself out completely, who came down to our level, and who touches us. 

(Insights into this passage came from Mark Moore, one of my professors.)