Holding on to Holding Hands

Once again, I went to church alone today. It does seem different without my husband sitting by my side. When we pray, Dean used to reach over to hold my hand and of course, I miss that. That and his booming voice during the hymn singing. There even seems to be less Amens without Dean's fervent ones ringing out. Church just isn't the same without him. Even though for some, it might be less scary, and for me, less stressful, due to his dementia.

Years ago when Dean and I were talking about our engagement while I was in college, I mentioned to him that his proposal was such a surprise to me because, up to that point, he hadn't even held my hand. He reminded me that he most certainly had held hands with me. It was during prayer! Well, who would have thought that would have counted? I stood corrected.

Thirty-six years ago I married this wild cowboy from Idaho. His hands were calloused and so masculine back then. I did remember holding hands the first time we went to church after his accident twelve years ago. When I took his hand during prayer that day, I noticed how soft and smooth it was, and almost cried. It was like holding the hand of a stranger.

The cowboy had changed. But he's still pretty wild. And I'm still glad I married him.