Holding His Hand

I nod as I walk into the room; physically and mentally assenting to my nurse’s reminder that I was there for his safety. Patients with severe head trauma are at a great risk for hurting themselves because their brains are not functioning properly. Taking stalk of the situation in one glance, I notice many things.

The patient is obviously very agitated and not in touch with the world as we know it. I see him squirming and wrigling, with flailing arms and legs, figetty hands, a sweaty furrowed brow, and dark confused eyes that randomly appear through his half open eyelids. His movement s are jerky and unintentional. Much to my relief I notice four shiny silver hand cuffs each one restraining one of his extremities. Along with the comfort these silver restraints bring, they also bring the reality that I am not caring for an innocent man. In case I was not so quick to pick up on this, the guard in the room reminds me. In attempt to calm his agitation and decrease the chance of him doing great harm to himself, I try many different measures ranging from turning the lights off to giving him medication. One of the more successful methods (although none were particularly effective) was just holding his hand. So that is what I did.

Toward the end of my 12 hour shift the guard hands me the local paper suggesting that I read an article that had been written about my patient’s situation. Knowing very little of the details of what brought my patient to the hospital and what had landed him in prison, I decided it would be worth my time. “OH MY, OH MY!” was all that I could think. I was in shock! All day long I had been holding the hand of a man that had been convicted of 2nd degree murder!

If I had known at the beginning of my shift who this man really was, would I have tried as hard to keep him safe? Would I have tried as hard to keep him comfortable? Would I have been as kind to him? Would I have held his hand?
As I pondered these revealing questions my heart is pierced as I recalled a similar situation in my life. Jesus Christ, knowing my wicked, rebellious heart and seeing my miserable helpless condition still chose to love me passionately and unconditionally. To me, the one who was once His enemy, the one who hated and ran from Him, the one who personally offended and offends Him, the one who sent Him to the cross to die a cruel death, to me His murderer, He gave eternal life. He gave His life so that I may live and have a personal relationship with the God of the universe. (Now that is what I call living!) He pulled me out of my wretched state and gave me hope. He gave me hope that there is more to life than this miserable existence. He calmed my agitated heart and brought a peace that overwhelmed my mind and body leaving me tranquilly resting in His arms. He loosened those restraining bonds of sin and freed me to do what I was created to do, serve Him. My Savior did all of this for me and yet I wanted to refrain from a simple act of kindness. My Savior gave His life and yet I did not want to hold this man’s hand.