I dread having blood drawn. My veins instinctively know to roll out of the way when there is something sharp headed their way.
If punctured, they batten down the hatches and squeeze hard to keep the doors closed. They seem to scream, “There will be no blood lost on our watch!”
It’s actually very touching that they so fervently protect me in this way. However, lab techs do not share the appreciation.
Some get a gleam in their eye and I can almost sense they are saying, “Game on!”
They attack with equal determination to find a “good vein.” Poking, prodding, and worst of all, taking their needle and going exploring.
I’ve had more than one squeal with delight as they say, “I’ve got it!” Then within seconds, they say, “It blew.”
Yep, once invaded, my ever creative circulatory system knows when to relinquish a mini-inch to save further robbery of its blood supply.
And so more determined invaders simply sigh deeply, reach for another weapon and say, “Let me look at your other arm.”
I do have a limit. Three attempts and they are out. I start considering just how much I need to sacrifice for any assessment of what is in my blood.
But once when I had blood drawn, I did not feel anything other than a warm hand on my arm.
A nice lady named Kari talked to me. She looked at me, not just my arm. She connected with me as a person, not just a task to check off in her day.
Her touch was gentle. In spite of all the previous bad experiences, I trusted her. We connected. Apparently my veins decided she was trustworthy too. They willingly relinquished some of their precious stores of blood.
When I asked her how she did it, she smiled and said, “I do it with love.”
As I thought about that precious gift of that day, I had a rush of memories of all the ways I have been touched in my life.
Not all were pleasant.
I have been hit in anger.
I have been touched in lust.
I have been handled as a part of invasive procedures.
I have been touched by health care workers, for whom I was just a task.
But I have also been touched in love. When I reflect, those memories are much stronger than the negative ones.
I remember my parents’ loving touch.
I think of the many loving touches my husband and I have shared.
I think of the joy of my baby’s first touch and how I enjoy the hugs of the young woman she has become.
I think of the touch of our grandson and how he explores my face in wonder.
I think of the hand holding and hugs of friends and family.
I think of the nuzzling touches of pets.
And I think of the touch of Jesus, The One Who reached out and healed with a touch, The One Who let others touch Him. He always touched in Love.
He still does.
Once He touched me through a woman named Kari. That night there was not even a physical sign on my skin. But I knew the spot where she touched me in love. She touched my heart.
The world would be a better place if we all strove to touch each other in The Love of Jesus.
And in this time, it may or may not be a physical touch. But there are always ways to touch in The Spirit.
Take a few moments and remember the times you have been touched in love. Thank God. Ask Him Who He would like you to touch in His Love.