The hug

I hadn't seen the young woman since our encounter on Easter Sunday. She showed up at Inner City Pastoral Ministry again this Sunday with a healed-over scar on her forehead, and found a seat at a back table, choosing to sit rather than dance this time.

But at some point during our Standing Stones service, she approached shyly, bringing me a copy of Alberta Native News, an Indigenous newspaper that is often found on the back counter of our worship area. I thanked her for it, bowing to her a little since she couldn't see my smile through my mask. 

She came closer, murmuring something about angels all around us.

"Yes," I said, "They look after us even when we don't think about them."

She put out her hand as though she wanted a handshake. I shook it gently, holding her gaze. When we dropped the handshake, she continued to look at me, and I knew, somehow, that she wanted something more.

"Would you like a hug?" I asked instinctively.

She didn't hestitate, wrapping her arms around me. I held her tightly, and she didn't let go for almost a full minute. My eyes filled with tears, as I thought about how she probably doesn't get a lot of hugs from the people around her on the streets of the inner city, and how my own children rarely hug me anymore, either.

When the hug ended, I said, "Thank you for the hug. I needed that," and we nodded to each other as she walked away.

I hope I was as much of an angel for her as she was for me.