Holy Hugs... and holy huggers

He always stood at the right front of the church after worship. I watched him handing out hugs like Halloween candy. All you had to do was just stand within grabbing distance of his long arms and you would be gathered in and gently held or gustily hugged, whatever you needed he seemed to instinctively know.
I was newly widowed, moved to a big city where I knew two people, and enrolled in the seminary. This church, Crescent Hill Baptist Church, was the largest one I had ever attended. Every Sunday I sat in the center, three rows back and cried discretely all the way through worship. As I gathered myself together after the benediction, I could never get by Grady without a hug. As a non-hugger, this was a frightening exercise at first even though he was careful to only give me gentle, one arm sideways hugs. Slowly I began to relax and look forward to the welcome blessing of touch that he offered. I was seen, welcomed, important enough to be hugged and the warmth of that hug often sustained me through the lonely week to come. As I wandered in the wilderness of widowhood, Grady’s hugs once a week after worship became a part of my new growth towards connection and wholeness.
Grady was an "humorist", an observer of the human condition, much like Will Rogers. He entertained at churches, conventions, companies and was a regular on the t.v. show Hee Haw. His humor was rooted in the church and his religious upbringing. By laughing at himself, he taught us how to laugh at ourselves. He was a big man, tall in stature and extra large in presence. There was no way to ignore Grady, even when you wanted to. This time of the year I always remember Grady. He was killed in a plane crash in Alabama not far from where we were visiting family during the Thanksgiving holiday . His funeral in our church was full to overflowing... little children, starchy old ladies, friends from his youth, country music stars, grizzled old men, young adults who had been in the Sunday School class he and Eleanor taught, friends from far and near gathered to mourn and laugh together, remembering Grady. We sang the Crescent Hill hymn, our theme song as a community of faith, that he had co-authored for our church. One little girl, at the end of the service, turned to the pastor and asked, "Who will hug us now?"
Our Minister of Music has set up an Afrinda (an altar for mementos, pictures and other items) to help us prepare for All Saints Sunday. I will carry a picture of Grady to set up there, tell his story and give thanks for this exuberant man who taught me how to give and receive hugs. Because of him, I now can offer hugs that connect body and soul, heart and mind, with gusto and gentleness, holy hugs. I now watch at our church to see who the holy huggers are. Ed Torrance always has a hearty holy hug. Ninety some odd years of living has not dimmed his hugability. The McMahon kids, Caleb and Katy, are wonderful huggers. Ben Herman, Stan Harris, Leslie Boyd, and Dianne Harper are huggers. After Celebrations and Concerns are shared in worship I see many of us reach out and hug those who are hurting, those of us who are flying high. I see Grady’s face and feel his arms reaching out to me once again, becoming the loving arms of God, holding me close in an embrace that welcomes and heals. Thanks be to God for loving arms that hug us and draw us closer to the Loved One that is waiting to be hugged back.

Bane or Benediction?

Friday morning we went to the back field to do some fence repair and re-hang a gate. A soft rain was falling and our drought parched fields soaked up the water as soon as it hit the ground. Like most farm tasks, it took longer than expected. The multiflora rose had run wild and had to be cut back. Somewhere there was poison ivy mixed in. Since I was wearing short sleeves I now have those pesky bumps on my arms. It was hard work, stretching wire, putting in posts, cutting back the thorny roses but it was a sweet work, too. We were together, Michael and I. When we were finished, there was a gate where we needed, a fence repaired and we were soaked with the gentle rain mixed with our sweat.
Saturday morning we went to eat breakfast at Poppy’s, a local hangout for locals, before we went to buy fencing supplies. By noon we were working on Junie B.’s fence in back of our house, once again putting in posts with the help of friends. It was interesting work. I learned how to drive our neighbor’s tractor so we could have two tractors working. One tractor was drilling holes for the posts and I drove the tractor that pushed the posts down into the ground. At the end of the day all the wooden posts were in. We had discovered how thin the layer of dirt is on the back side of our hill after we bent four metal posts trying to get them in the ground... something to think about as we headed down the hill for supper at mama’s. She cooked a meal like I remember as a child. We had pork roast, potato salad, squash from the freezer, greasy beans we had canned, sweet potatoes, spoon bread, peas and brownies. We sat around the table, talking and laughing and groaning with our tired muscles creaking when we got up for seconds.
Sunday morning we left early for church. The youth group leaders (Michael is one) had a quick meeting before worship. Choir practice at ten was fun as usual. I made my stream of consciousness announcement about the church retreat with Eli’s help. The children’s choir sang and I leaked tears as I watched and heard those young un’s sing. After worship on our way home Megan called to let Matthew talk to us. It was Children’s Sabbath at their church and Miss Maria, their Children’s Minister, had called out the names of all the children in church. He was so excited to hear his name called from the pulpit. The children’s sermon became the adult’s sermon done by a child. He felt so important and included in church yesterday. Sunday evening we dropped by a friend’s party before dropping Michael off at youth group. I went to the hospital to visit a friend before going home to watch Andy Griffith on T.V. with mama.
It was a weekend full of bane and benediction... poison ivy, multiflora rose and a gate well hung... solid wooden posts deep in good dirt and bent metal posts six inches on top of rock... hard sweaty work in sweet rain... not enough done and just the right amount done... work alone and work together... good food and good friends and good farm... sore muscles and ibuprofen... not enough time and farm time... cussin’ and laughing... a good end to the week.
My son Adam does not remember any of the sermons our pastor preached as he was growing up but he does remember the benediction. Every Sunday Steve repeated the same words, gave us the same blessing as we left for life outside the church building, and those words are branded into our souls. I offer this benediction to you, adapted from William Sloane Coffin by Steve Shoemaker, as my prayer for the coming week.
May God give us grace not to sell ourselves short, grace to risk something big for something good, grace to remember that the world is now too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love. So may God take our minds and think through them. May God take our lips and speak through them. May God take our hearts and set them on fire.