Sun in the Middle of Rain: Your Hand in Mine

In my last Blog post, “Your Hand in Mine,” I wrote about feeling Joe’s hand in mine during my climb up Mount Kilimanjaro. This particular moment is one of the most profound and intimate experiences I’ve ever had, and it would be much easier to keep it to myself. But I think sometimes we’re supposed to share these extra special, extra cool God-things, because they do happen, and they are real. They are the God-inspired sparks igniting our lives again.

“’Go back home and tell what God has done for you.’ The man went through the town, telling what Jesus had done for him.” -- Luke 8:39 (GNT)

Ever since Joe died, I had been asking God for a stronger connection with Himself and with Joe. I kept waiting for something, anything. But I didn’t have any dreams, heard no music from Heaven, felt no mysterious presence -- NOTHING. I knew God was there, because He says He is, but I wanted more. I always want more -- my heart is never quite satisfied with what my head knows is enough.

And God, because He knows how I am and is OK with it (kind of like Joe was), knew what I needed. He already had it planned out in spectacular fashion as only He can do.

“IT” happened the day before Summit Day. Our hike before Summit Day was about a 5-hour trek. Coach Rob (affectionately known as the 8^th Wonder of the World for his energizer bunny-like qualities) had advised us to NOT TALK AT ALL while hiking this day so we could store up all the energy we could for Summit Day. WHAT?!?! No talking? Incessant chatter and laughing had fueled my friend Melanie's and my way up the mountain to that point, so not talking was taking a huge leap into the unknown. But we followed orders (mostly, shhhhh....)

So our team walked single file in companionable silence, only a few surreptitious whispers and muffled giggles along the way. The setting reminded me of Mars or the Moon, not that I’ve ever been to either place. But it was flat, sandy, rocky, cold, still -- kind of like grief. As the hours passed, I found myself thinking of nothing. I just walked. And walked and walked, watching Melanie’s hiking boots in front of me, stepping where she stepped.

Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, Joe’s hand was holding my right hand. He was with me, and his hand was in mine -- I’m sure of it. My right hand used to hold his left hand as we went to sleep. When he died, I couldn’t let go of his hand. It was still warm a long time after he died. I’ve never understood how that could be. I’ve desperately missed his hand in mine. But on that mountain, the day before Summit Day, in a splendidly full breath-taking silence, we were holding hands again. I cried.

Not 10 seconds later, Melanie, who was hiking in front of me, turns around with a look that I can only describe as awe, wonder and urgency mixed together. She grabs my hand and quietly says, “I feel like I’m supposed to tell you this right now. It can’t wait. I suddenly felt an unexpected breeze, and God told me that we’re walking through your sorrow.” She didn’t say anything else, and we walked together for a while, her hand in mine, both of us crying.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” -- Psalm 23:4 (ESV)

“Be still and know that I AM GOD.” -- Psalm 46:10

In that moment, God gave me Himself, He gave me Joe, and He gave me myself. Barriers guarding my heart and mind disintegrated, replaced with a deep, real, everyday Hope that changed my life. I’ve always known about Hope, believed in Hope and even been the grateful recipient of Hope in very tangible ways. But on that day, Hope held my hand and wouldn’t let go, won’t let go. Hope gave me who (Who) I needed most, and my heart will be forever thankful. I know now that Hope is not bound by time or space or even death. Hope has no limits. And that’s pretty cool. Pao.