“Hold on—I see someone I need to hug.”
Me. I was the person she needed to hug.
Hugs are her specialty; every time we see each other—and we seem to cross paths at freakishly opportune times—we hug long and full of love. We hold that hug in the middle of an aisle or parking lot or sidewalk long enough for the gentle pressure to ease our souls. Maybe we visit, maybe we don’t. Maybe we cry, maybe we don’t. Always we hug. Always we care. Always we accept the other.
And what unites us? Not age or address. Not church or work. Grief. Grief unites us. Although our losses are different, we are both trying to find our way and our joy on paths we never wanted to travel, and we are both open about our grief. We are kindred safe spirits.
She didn’t know I’d just come from a check-up with a new provider, or that I was wandering Wal-Mart sort of in a daze, sort of okay, and perpetually stressed. She just knew that I needed a hug. Establishing with a new provider includes talking about the dark and twisty parts of life. It’s been three years, but that first conversation is always tricky. I cried saying things I can ordinarily say dry-eyed, but . . . first time with that person. So while my hugging friend didn’t know what I’d done minutes before our interaction, she is painfully aware of the emotional landmines hidden on these paths we walk.
Am I saying I want everyone to give me a long, squishy hug in Wal-Mart? No. No, please do not do that to me.
But that unsolicited kindness, that gentleness of the soul, that genuine concern for the brokenhearted among us? Yes. We all need more of that. Because aren’t we all a bit brokenhearted?
The entire world needs more kindness, gentleness, and concern.
Woods Writes 