Holding the Hand of a Stranger

I step gingerly into the cold, clear water of a narrow branch of the Applegate River. Boulders and trees surround the area, filtering the glaring sun. I can see my river sandals under two feet of water, balancing on a rock. I hold a bag of towels and food above the water. As I cross the side of a rocky pool, the water rushes by my legs and spills over a few feet before continuing on. There is a shirtless man in his sixties standing in the pool, the cool water swirling around him as if he were a boulder. He offers to help those in our party who need assistance to get to the other side, where there is a small beach area for spreading out our towels. I begin crossing, and the water level hits the top of my thighs. I hold my bag up higher and without hesitation grasp the man’s extended hand. It is familiar, this hand of a stranger, steady and somehow warm as I ford the cold water. I reach the other side and thank him, this stranger who was there right when we needed him.

*

How often do we hold the hand of a stranger? We hold doors open for them, we pick things up if they drop them, and we tell them if we know where something is that they’re looking for. But the last time I remember holding a stranger’s hand was when I was climbing out of the Jungle Cruise boat at Disneyland and the employee helped me. And I don’t think that really counts (although I suppose it could).

The quote “A stranger is a friend we haven’t met yet” has been attributed to several people in different variations, and it’s one that I try to keep in the forefront of my mind as we get rapidly closer to Neil’s transition to an adult foster home. I am putting my son’s care and well-being in the hands of strangers. We are crossing a cold, rushing river with only strangers’ hands to help us. Fortunately, I have met them, and they are truly lovely people. Theirs is the kind of home that just feels right, even though the situation isn’t optimal (Neil will be sharing a room). But every positive point in the world doesn’t take away from the fact that my son will be living with people I had dinner with for an hour and a half. Why, then, do I feel okay with it?

Well-placed trust. These are highly regarded career caregivers, and we were blessed that they had an opening. The wife of the team told me that the best part of what they do is going to bed every night knowing that they helped someone, made a difference in their life. I felt it – her truth. It wasn’t a staged comment. It just came out in conversation, as she was preparing an organic salad, dicing red bell peppers. It was then that I knew – this was where my son would live. This was the extended hand we would grasp and hold onto.

*

I sit on my towel in the gravely beach area, eating some cheese and crackers. I look across the narrow river to the rocky area on the other side where the helpful stranger is sitting in a beach chair, reading a book. He is facing the hot sun, his tan skin soaking up more of it, like my father used to do. I am reminded of the Bible verse about “entertaining angels unaware,” although I am the one who had a kindness shown to me. Still, it brings me comfort, the thought that his memory is with me even in small ways. And it brings me comfort to remember the fact that all of my closest friends, the people I’ve come to rely on the most, were at one point strangers. They were the smiling faces I chose to trust, the extended hands I reached out to take.