HEALING TOUCH [W, 7-20-22]

My Crumble Bum friend, Charlie Matson, said recently that he likes to be a greeter at church because it gives him an excuse to touch people. “Men don’t touch men,” he said. “But we need to. We need that connection. When I’m a greeter, I get to shake hands.”

Crumble Bums are meeting this morning. I’m going to shake hands with Charlie. And, just to be sure, give him a hug. [1]

When I was on chemo, and thinking I would die “in a year or two,” my close, long-time [1956-2015] friend and colleague, Bill White, drove down from Bloomington, IL to Arcola to spend time with me. He sat beside me on the sofa as we talked, and when he was ready to leave, he put his arm around me and held my hand to pray for me.

It was the first time anyone but my wife and daughters touched me, except for the medical people, whose touches usually brought me pain.

It got me to thinking about how no one ever touched Jesus. He did a lot of touching, especially in healing. He was the one who touched the feet to wash them. But no one ever touched him, except through an intermediary object, like spear or hair or whip.

With men, surprisingly, hugging is now the preferred mode of touch, even more than hand shaking. That was not true for a long time. Men did not hug anyone, even women. The worst thing that could be said, “S/he is a hugger.” You avoided those people.

I’m not exactly sure when the flip came. I think hippies and flower-children changed that. Now, [at least before covid] it is de rigueur to hug anyone you haven’t seen for more than 2 days. Certainly, any kind of celebration “calls for a hug.” But, you know, hugging isn’t really touching. It’s less intimate than shaking hands, especially when men do that one arm “bro hug.” It’s just cotton to cotton.

Yes, I know that shaking hands can be perfunctory, and a way to pass viruses from one to another, but there is something uniquely human about a skin to skin touch. In an age of Zoom and Tik Tok, we need personal touch more than ever.

When Bill was in the hospital, dying, I held his hand.

John Robert McFarland

1] We got our name by meeting at Crumble Bakery for coffee. We met at Glenn’s invitation, because, he says, “From the time I was a little kid, I wanted to be part of a group of old men who sat around telling stories.” That is, I think, a unique dream. When the virus came, Charlie and Tony and Ron and I switched to drinking coffee in Glenn’s garage, and eating goodies that Helen or Allyson baked.