Holding Hands

I remember the first time I held hands with a girl the way some remember their first kiss.

It was my junior year; summer of ’65. I was at a Baptist youth camp. Her name was Jan. She was blonde and barely 14. She was a preacher’s daughter who knew the ropes (redundant).

It was Friday night, our last night of camp; the night when things turn tender. I had met her earlier at the Canteen. We'd talked and she'd said maybe we could sit together in the big open-air tabernacle. We were third row center. Her dad was preaching.

It was Texas hot and humid. We were fanning ourselves like mad, courtesy of Roy Akers Funeral Home. But Jan was wearing a sweater over her camp shirt. Maybe she was cold-natured.

Ten minutes into the service she pulled her sweater over her head, laid it across our legs, reached under it and put her hand on my knee. I put my hand over hers and kept it there until everyone else was leaving.

I floated out of that service, and camp, changed forever. Saved!

When a couple is sitting in a restaurant in the middle of a cold war, the most difficult and loving way to break the mood is to reach across the table and take the other’s hand. The gift of touch, unexpected and intentional, can soothe hurt feelings, dissolve anger and make peace.

It is stronger than words, taking the hand of someone you love.