What I Learned When Squeezed

There are hugs and there are hugs. If you have existed long in a world containing women, you know what I mean.

 Some hugs are air hugs, where participants hold there bodies far from each other. They  kiss the air and pat the air over the other person’s shoulder.

Those hugs don’t mean any more than the greeter at Wal-Mart who says, “Welcome to Wal-Mart. How are you today?”

Then there are hugs. My friend Clara Louise Jeanne Valentiner was the hug queen. On Friday afternoons, I would walk into her house with McDonald’s Happy Meals. Neither of us ever really grew up.

Her four cats would meet me at the door, drawn by the smell of fresh French fries. As I hallooed my presence and stepped into the back living room, she would turn from her computer, and throw out her arms.

I hesitated at first, wanting to keep my bubble of personal space intact. Maybe it was God who nudged me into that first embrace, an envelope that said, “I love you. Specifically you, and I’m glad you’re here.”

 She valued me enough to haul me into her own space. She valued me enough to risk touching me, to risk throwing open her heart.

 Just what I needed. Her and those huge—actions speak louder than words—hugs. Acceptance, unconditional, like Our Savior. Not because I brought Mc Donald’s or fed the cats French fries, or painted my nails with her, or talked books and theology, but just because I was her friend.

Jeanne died September 6, 2002. She closed her eyes here and opened them in His hug. I was a little envious of them hugging each other face to face. But my turn is coming.

Until then I give out really good, big, enveloping, accepting  hugs. Just come on by and get one.