When Love Held My Hand
When I heard the heavy steel door clang shut, it was
a comforting sound.
Somehow I felt that nothing could touch me now.
My entire world had come crashing down;
yet in the quiet of the psychiatric ward, quite unexpectedly,
I felt safe.
Terror stalked outside the door, but inside it could not reach me.
God had abandoned me. I was sure of it.
My relationship with God had always come easily,
and now He seemed so far away.
It was almost impossible to see or hear Him,
when my eyes and mind and heart were filled with confusion.
I was very angry with God at what had befallen me, and I railed at Him.
I prayed in hopeless anguish.
How could this happen? Why did He not protect me?
Where was God, when I needed Him so desperately?
Why was He not with me in my darkest hour?
Sometime during my first morning in the psychiatric
ward,
my pastor visited me. I had never felt comfortable with him,
yet I supposed that I had written the name of my church
on the hospital admittance form. I was surprised and touched
that he had come so quickly.
Surely he would have some words of comfort for me.
"Pastor, I don't know if I believe in God!" I cried
out to him.
He sat like a rod of iron, his eyes averted, his face stiff and
unyielding.
"It’s sin in your life!” he said.
“Perhaps if you confessed your sin,
then you'd receive an answer as to why you are in this place."
He looked at me with disgust.
I felt as though I’d been slapped. Ice crystals began to form around my
heart.
I just sat there looking at him and
wondering why he had bothered to come at all.
"You must be very busy." I said, miserably.
“Perhaps you'd better go now, so you don't get behind in your duties.”
My words clunked together like blocks of ice.
My eyes followed him as he stood up.
I thought his face looked awfully hard for a man so young.
He hesitated, looking more lost than I felt.
"Well…if you need anything. . . "
"Sure," I said, with bitter sarcasm,
"just in case I want someone to confess to.”
Without meeting my eyes, he handed me his card.
I took it and watched him go.
Tears spilled from my eyes and ran down my cheeks.
Lifting my feet into my chair, I hugged my knees and buried my face.
I felt forgotten and shunned.
I knew I'd never return to his church again!
Later, I walked slowly to the nurses' station and handed the nurse his
card.
I told her to place his name on the list of persons that I never wanted to
see.
I was certain, now, that God had left me totally alone.
The rest of the day I was like a sleepwalker,
pretending I cared about my life.
The next morning I was interrupted in my ceramics
class
‑‑ one of the many activities that "experts" believe will
make a patient feel normal in an institutional environment.
Someone to see me? At 10:30 in the morning? Who could it be?
Believe me, when you wind up in a psychiatric ward,
it's highly unlikely you're going to send out invitations!
There were very few people who even knew I was in the hospital;
so this visitor was a complete mystery.
I walked
out into the lounge, anxiously looking around.
Sitting by himself, across the room at a table,
was a tiny elderly man.
As soon as he saw me, his face beamed, and he smiled.
Hesitantly, I smiled back.
He beckoned, and I looked around,
making sure there was no one else, whom he might be expecting.
Why would he come to see me?
I walked over, knowing this must be a mistake.
He must be here to see some other patient; or perhaps he, too, was a
patient.
He stood up, and held out his hand.
It was a small, frail hand, but his handshake was surprisingly firm.
He squeezed my hand with both of his.
It was a warm feeling.
Reluctantly, I slipped my hands away as he began to speak.
"I'm a traveling pastor, and someone told me that you
needed me."
"Who
told you?" I asked, shivering.
"That's
not important, now,” He said with a smile, “but you are important.”
He again reached out and took my hands in both of his.
He radiated such warmth that
his blue-veined hands were almost hot to the touch.
"How can I help you?" He asked, his voice filled with
compassion.
All
of a sudden my eyes welled up with tears,
and I just burst forth with my story.
He listened, and the expression on his face mirrored my every emotion.
When I cried, his eyes filled. When I laughed, he chuckled.
When my face contorted with grief and anguish,
his face nearly broke with sorrow.
"Oh, Pastor!" I cried. "I don't know if God loves
me!
I don't know if he knows I'm alive! I don't know if I even believe in
Him!"
The pain poured out of me like a flood.
I waited for that look of disgust, but all I saw was love.
This man loved me, and he didn't even know me!
At my outburst, he smiled into my eyes.
"My dear," he said, "if you can't believe in God
right now,
then maybe it will help you to know that I do."
Warmth flooded through me.
At that moment I was certain that I was in the presence of holiness.
Smiling, he pressed my hands.
Then he turned and walked toward the big, steel door.
In the doorway, he turned again, still smiling.
"God be with you,” he said, softly.
The door clanged shut behind him, but strange as it seems,
I felt as though he had left a part of himself behind.
It was a long road back to healing,
but I made it out of the hospital, and back into a restored life.
Many years later, I'm still amazed to discover
what a precious gift my nervous breakdown was.
It taught me that I can hold a hand and give comfort to a stranger.
It taught me, that I can touch a heart with just a few words.
It taught me that I can love without condition.
It taught me that I can laugh and cry
and never be ashamed.
It taught me that God is as close as my next heartbeat,
and that when I least expect Him,
He will always show up.
I have walked through many a dark valley
since that day when love held my hand,
yet I have learned that I never walk alone.
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