Take My Hand 



By Barbara Baumgardner

Harriett jumped when I touched her arm. Then, seeing who it was, she burst into tears. "Oh, where have you been? I needed you! I needed you! I can't go through this without you!"

Bending over an old metal hospital bed, I reached for her thin, bruised hand. Trapped in a weakened, morphine-laced body, Harriett looked so helpless and fragile, yet alert to my presence in the dimly-lit room. Eighty-seven years old and dying from lung cancer, she surprised me by explaining her distress, "I had a heart attack last night."



Her pleading, fear-filled eyes searched my face. "Where were you when I needed you? Please don't leave me."



During the past months, as her hospice pastoral care volunteer, I'd watched Harriett mature spiritually. Often we talked about heaven and the fun of seeing those who'd gone on ahead. There were, however, a couple of her relatives she wasn't sure would be there because they were such "ornery critters." She'd squint her eyes at me when I told her to be ready for some great surprises.



Between my visits, she'd forget to focus on Jesus during difficult times - like the prior night. Each time I visited, she'd ask me to pray that she wouldn't forget next time.



Harriett's eyes were wild and weepy as she described her panic during the heart pain. "The nurse didn't come. It was the worst pain of my whole life and I was so scared." Though she had accepted the fact that she was dying, it still sometimes terrified her.



"So what did you do?" I asked.



"I just laid here and waited it out - all alone," she wailed.After hugging her frail shoulders, I told her I needed to leave for a few minutes to get her a surprise. Hurrying to a nearby Burger King, I bought her favorite lunch: a fish sandwich and a strawberry milkshake. While I was waiting at the drive-up window, I asked Jesus to take my hand and walk me through this dilemma with Harriett.



Back at the nursing home, I realized how peaceful my prayer had left me feeling, so I suggested to Harriett that she ask Jesus to take her hand. "When the pain comes," I told her, "when you feel fear or panic, reach up and say, 'Jesus, take my hand.'"



The bony, bruised arm slowly reached into the air while Harriett rehearsed the words repeatedly. "Jesus, take my hand. Jesus, take my hand."



"Harriett," I spoke louder to assure she'd hear me. "He'll take your hand and bring you comfort. He'll hold on until the pain lets up. He'll sit with you in the darkness of the long nights, and one of these times, you'll hear Him say, 'Come on Harriett, let's go home.'"



A peaceful look began to replace the deep lines of fear in Harriett's face. Paraphrasing Psalm 91, and inserting Harriett's name for "you" and "your," I read to her: "Harriet will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day.... For Harriet has made the Lord her refuge. He will command His angels to guard her in all her ways; they will lift her up in their hands.... Harriet will call upon the Lord and He will answer her...."



While I read, Harriett's frail, bony fingers stroked my hair. I felt her hands move around in my curls. Then she spoke softly, "You have beautiful hair. The sunlight is streaming through your curls and the gray has turned to silver. There is a special glow about you every time you come, and I feel surrounded by your love. You are God's gift to me - to walk beside me on this journey. I love you."



I was overwhelmed by the tremendous love that God allowed us to share for this short time.



Full of lunch and tired, Harriett closed her eyes. I whispered, "Good-bye," and told her I'd be back soon.



I stood in the doorway, looking back at my short-term friend, missing her already. Then a thin arm came slowly out from under the blanket and reached into the air. Her mouth formed the words, "Take my hand."
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