'My daughter was aghast at the concept of a Meeting without biscuits afterwards. I realised what I missed most were the handshakes.' Photo: by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash
Handshaking: Anna Levin misses the finishing touch
‘Hands are important to me – central to my spiritual journey and my perception of God.’
It’s a joy to be returning to Meeting in person after these Zoom years. In our family we use different words for it: ‘actual Meeting’, ‘real Meeting’, or ‘3D Meeting’. We’re greeted with humour as we all adjust to this new dimension: ‘Good Lord, you’ve got legs!’
We came back slowly, cautiously, masked and spaced apart, at first. Those first Meetings were a swirl of both delight and sadness – sometimes keeping our distance in ‘real life’ felt more distant than Zoom. My daughter was aghast at the concept of a Meeting without biscuits afterwards. I realised what I missed most were the handshakes.
In life BC (Before Covid) we were greeted at the door by a smile and a welcoming handshake. Afterwards, we shook hands with those beside us, then turned to reach those in front and behind. These reaches resulted in more smiles and eye contact, and made me feel included.
I’m always intrigued by the texture of handshakes: the surprising softness or roughness of different hands, the tentative touches and firm grips, the subtle ways a hand can communicate with an extra squeeze or a moment’s linger. Sometimes there’s a little surge, like electricity.
I realise hands are important to me – central to my spiritual journey and my perception of God and Jesus. There are many metaphors and images we use to reach beyond our understanding and articulate our experience of the divine, and mine seem to focus on hands. Hands guiding, leading, pushing, reaching, holding.
Once, at Woodbrooke, I was struggling, feeling blocked. I had a sensation of Jesus beside me on a boggy mountain slope. He was kneeling and we were digging at the ground with our hands, glancing at each other and laughing. We were dirty and our fingernails full of mud. We dug until water flowed and then kept digging, and laughing, on our hands and knees, making a path for the water to flow and twist between the rocks and heather.
A Friend once explained how she hands her troubles over to Jesus at night. When I’m churning over worries I remember this and find sweet relief, and sleep, by placing my cares ino Jesus’ outstretched hands.
Another time, wondering what to do with my life, I had been vaguely wondering about a postgraduate course. I was rushing through the square at Edinburgh University when I felt the sensation of hands gently stopping me and turning me around. They led me into the admissions office, where I discovered it was the last day to apply.
Sometimes, those hands are a hard shove, pushing me somewhere I don’t want to go, or compelling me to stand and say what needs to be said. Other times they’re hands to hold, supporting and guiding. I reach for them like a child seeking reassurance. Sometimes, the hands are big and I am small. I climb into them, and curl up inside like a flower fairy – safe, comforted, shielded and contained.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not disagreeing with the decision to avoid touch, or the need to protect each other. I’m just saying how much I miss the touch of Friends, and I hope we can shake hands again some day soon.
