Touch

I stopped at Amy's grave today. I hadn't been there for two weeks, since I left a big pink pinwheel. It was extremely hard. I have been missing her so much. I laid on the ground and cried and cried. I could never understand why people visit a cemetery, because their loved one isn't there anymore. At least not their spirit, just their decaying body. But I realize that it is still a connection to the one they've lost. It is still a connection for me to Amy. I wipe the grass off her name plate and make sure that the little things we have left there are ok. I am able to touch a piece of earth that is still hers. The cemetery is such a peaceful place and when I collect myself I can hear the birds singing and a tractor somewhere in the distance and I feel more at peace. 

Yesterday I packed up her tape player and digital player from the Library for the Blind and Handicapped and I still had three stories that she had last listened to that I also sent back. She was listening to a series by Lauraine-Snelling about pioneers in the Dakotas. She had listened to the first two series over the last few years and now she was starting on the third series. I had read them many years ago, so I was able to talk about the characters with Amy. I would usually lay on her bed with her and talk. I would hold her sometimes and stroke her forehead or play with her hair or massage her hands.
I miss those moments with her.

I have finally finished my study of Matthew and started now with Mark. What has impressed me about Jesus' ministry is how many people he actually touched. I mean physically touched. Even if they had leprosy. There are only a few cases of people that were healed just by His voice. If we are to be like Jesus, why don't we touch each other? Give more hugs, or even a handshake knowing the person might be sick. We are so afraid of getting something ourselves that we forget about faith in God and trust that He will protect us. When Amy was in the hospital, there was a chaplain who would come to see Amy almost every day and pray with her. She even gave Amy a crocheted blanket that was so pretty. She was a small older woman and she was a nun. She was so sweet. She would put her hand on Amy's forehead and sometimes hold my hand also as she prayed. Although I wasn't of the same denomination as she was, it didn't matter. But the touch mattered to me and to Amy. I noticed it in her eyes. She liked this little nun. I wish I could remember her name, so I could tell her that Amy is in heaven now. Someday I hope I will know her in heaven so I can thank her for her ministry to us. 

The last verses in Matthew say:

"And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen."

Jesus is with me always. Always. Always. 
When I am sad, He comforts me.
When I am crying, He collects my tears. 
When I am at peace, He rejoices.