16 September 2012 ~ HOLDING HANDS

16 September 2012 ~ HOLDING HANDS

 

 

A lot of good folks have emailed me to say that they’re looking forward to my blog about Ecuador; it’s coming.  But first, I would like to write about something I saw at Miami International Airport, on my journey back from Ecuador.  I had a rather long layover in Miami.  There’s nothing like people watching when you have lots of time to kill at a busy airport.

When you’re not caught up in your own world, you get the chance to look at other peoples’ worlds; albeit the view is from the outside looking in (read my blog on views).  But first we need to take a quick journey back in time…

One of the first dates my lovely bride and I ventured on when we were a young couple was to spend a day taking in the beautiful cathedral in the city of Lincoln, England.  Jane used to take the train to come and visit me in Lincoln on weekends.  The cathedral, like any other, is magnificent.  I particularly wanted to see the Battle of Britain window.  As we were meandering through this magnificent gothic building, Jane reached out to hold my hand.  As surprising as this may sound, it took me completely off guard.  I couldn’t actually recall the time previous, when a hand was held in mine.  I felt a bit uncomfortable, but I tried to hide it.  It just didn’t seem natural to me, at that time in my younger man’s life.

I’m older now, and (hopefully) wiser.  I am not some psycho-analytic babbler here, but I think I might have figured out why I felt as I did that day when Jane took my hand in hers.  I do not actually recall my parents ever holding my hand.  It wasn’t that they didn’t love or care for my sister and I.  It is just that they never held my hand.  I recall my dad holding my hand on only one occasion; we were all getting in to a Mini Cooper that belonged to his friend.  In those days you could get a lot of passengers in a Mini Cooper; no seatbelts, no safety regulations.  Mum, my sister and the girlfriend of my dad’s friend in the back, with me sitting in between Dad’s legs on the front seat.  One Mini-Cooper, six people.   I was eight years old.  I trapped my fingers in the car door and it hurt and I cried.  All the way back to our house my dad held my hand and massaged my aching fingers.  By God I wish he was here to do it for me again today.  I never forgot how much it meant to me when he held my hurting hand. 

Thanks to Jane, I am very comfortable holding hands.  I have always held the hands of our three children.  My son, Martin, and I held hands all of his young life, but sadly that ‘day’ arrived.  We were walking up to the mall to do some ‘guys’ Christmas shopping together and we were holding hands.  Then we realised that Martin might actually be too big for dad to be holding his hand.  After all, his shoe size was already three more than mine!  We had a chuckle when the thought came to us that we may have looked like lovers rather than father and son.  Society is strange, if it had been one my daughters, Zoe or Alex, it would be acceptable.  In fact it is socially acceptable to hold the hand of the opposite sex at any age; and thankfully our societal view is slowly changing, such, that you can hold any hand at any age.

So, at Miami airport, whilst people watching, the holding of hands is something that I always notice.  Airports of today are a stressful event.  But you can see both sides of love; especially between the departure level and the arrival level.  So in between the frustrations and other emotions of the travelling masses, I always seem to notice when hands are being held.  It is such a sight to behold, whether young or old. 

But in Miami airport I saw the most beautiful sight of my day.  The last passengers to deplane from an aircraft are the passengers that need assistance.  I don’t know if this gentleman working that day was a staff member of Miami International Airport, or if he was a Ground/Customer Service Agent for American Airlines.  But he escorted the last passenger off the aircraft, in to the terminal, and continued on towards the exit.  This older lady was obviously unsure of anything that was going on based on the worried and perplexed look on her face.  But even I, from a distance, could tell she was in good hands; his kind black hand held on to her fragile white hand.  They were strangers just a few minutes ago when he boarded to help her deplane.  Now they were locked in one of the most important gestures that we, as living, thinking, caring human beings, by God’s design, are all able and capable of doing; holding hands.

I like holding hands!