In the Presence of Faith

During a time of year where religious voices speak loudest, I do hope that all of you feel momentarily touched by some version of faith.

Don’t worry, for religious and non-religious alike can contemplate the idea of faith. Most easily found through the physical sensation of being moved by someone or something, faith can find through feeling. For me, by simply feeling the warmth of a brief interaction, I am regularly reminded.

Warmth, a lightning-fast presence of comfort and reassurance, can influence you much longer than the moment of original exchange.

To demonstrate certain moments of power and an unspeakable presence, I am pulling out an old story from the vault. A seemingly insignificant interaction that has impacted my life and replayed in my head for decades. I hope that it puts a smile on your face, a question in your mind, and a memory in your heart of an example from your own life where you may have witnessed an act of magic…a visitation perhaps that gifted you with faith.

New Jersey, 2002

A crowded school bus of rambunctious teenagers pulled to a stop in front of a seashore nursing home. The square brick building was hidden behind a run-down medical complex and practically forgotten compared to the busy intersection of tourist traffic in front of it. The kids could tell it had infrequent visitors. On this chilly December morning, the students were all matching; dressed in white button-up shirts, black pants, and sharp black shoes, they held varying sizes of instruments on their laps. The kids anxiously swayed side to side and peeked up at the line of exiting students in front of them; they were eager to spend the next few hours skipping school to spread a little Christmas cheer to elderly strangers.

While in line with boys from my local soccer club, I endured the daily routine of getting teased yet flirted with simultaneously. As the only girl on my team, the attention that came with it didn’t win me any points with the girls that swooned over my popular male companions. Making eye contact with one such group of girls, the ones that exist only in herds, I ignored my friends and hurried off the bus. At that age, my guard was always up.

I was one of the over achievers at this annual school trip, fumbling to carry the sheet music needed for both the choir carols and the jazz band pieces. Because of this dual set of skills, I regularly danced between identifying myself as a band geek or a cool kid. The easiest place to hide in such a social predicament of course was to awkwardly stand near the teacher. Together we watched the groups of chattering students, oblivious to anyone outside of their circles, as if we hadn’t come here for a purpose besides themselves.

Inevitably, before showtime, my teacher shooed me away from her and encouraged us all to mingle with our elderly audience. They had either waddled into the room or had been pushed in on an assisted wheelchair. As a 13-year-old with nothing to say to the sickly or dying, I made a safe yet small circle in the room trying to smile, nod, and wish the women a “Merry Christmas.”

I figured that small talk with friendly old women would help me dodge a conversation and the unwanted attention from the old men who were circling and commenting on my hair. To avoid one particularly spry trio of men, I scanned the room for a seemingly harmless elder. One woman was slumped over in her wheelchair and unattended by any of the employees or choir students. I started her way.

Her elegant purple turban had caught my eye and had a pleasant, calming feel. “Good morning, Merry Christmas” I said basically to myself.

After moments of silence, I proceeded to compliment how beautiful the lace and crushed velvet hair wrap was. Something in her lit up and without speaking, bowed her head to me with a toothless grin. I could tell she was beautiful in her youth despite her now tired posture and contorted, curled hands.

It looked as though she was holding something very tightly in her left hand, which I assumed was a rosary like most other east coast grandmothers.  She wordlessly lifted her right hand and used her index finger to summon me closer.

Looking over my shoulder for my teacher, I took a polite step forward and offered my hand, knowing how grandmothers like to caress young hands or reminisce over long, strong hair. I braced myself, preparing for this mysterious stranger to start petting me, but instead, she took my hand with a surprisingly strong grip and opened my palm towards the ceiling.

Silently she placed the item she was concealing into the center of my palm…there was nothing there.

Now with both hands, she closed my open palm that contained the invisible present into a tight circle. Arthritic knuckles aside, she held firmly for a few moments to ensure all three hands were protecting and hiding this pretend object.

In an effort to be polite to this mute and possibly senile woman, despite my extreme discomfort, I maintained our contact and smiled with surface level appreciative gestures. No one seemed to be looking at this intensely intimate interaction that was happening so I would be free to pull away any second to run without seeming heartless.

As if she could anticipate my mental preparation to flee, she pulled our hands closely to her heart until my ear was tucked in near her face. She was able to speak. Just loud enough for me to hear, whispering, “Take this, hold onto it, and tell no one.”

Gulp.

There was no joking or casual tone included in this message. It was a blessing, an offering. A warmth.

I pulled away as any immature teenager would and thanked her with a nervous giggle. “That’s very kind. Thank you, I won’t.”

Well besides relaying the confusing story that night to my parents, I have never told anyone about the magical surprise I received that holiday morning. Until now.

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So, what exactly happened that day?

To reiterate, a seemingly insignificant interaction that has impacted my life and replayed in my head for decades. One that puts a smile on my face, a question in my mind, and a memory in my heart where I believe I was witness to some type of transmission. Whether it was only in her mind or intention, she influenced me. Her commitment to something precious, her selecting me to inherit it, and, a reminder that some precious things should be kept personal.

Outside of fantasizing what life skills or spiritual gifts she may have bestowed upon me that day, the story has evolved in my mind so much that it now calls for action. To ask, what gifts do I hope to pass on? Can I preserve the intangible things in life that I’m passionate about enough to offer them to those who I connect with?

Will they receive it?

Will I recognize the exchange?

Has it already happened or have I missed that moment perhaps?

Is it a one-time offering, or a continually influence?

All this self-inquiry and contemplation from a single hand hold, from a warm touch. At that young age, what I perceived as a flush of emotions and embarrassment running through my body may in fact have been something greater. Like a proverbial download, an upgrade was accepted in my body as it left the woman in front of me. Even if the gift was nothing other than her conviction and belief, it held lasting influence.

So, this holiday season, whether you feel a sensation you can recognize enough to call faith, I encourage you to seek the gift of warmth. Warm exchanges, warming music, the warmth of the sun, any shift that pulls you closer to light and comfort within yourself or your family. Be it brief or long lasting, that awareness of stepping into warmth is a gift that you can pass on…to all that you hold close.