He was the first AIDS patient I had ever met, let alone visit.

He was in the hospital and I was a part-time Protestant Chaplain.

I    HAD    TO    VISIT    HIM

within the first 24 hours of his admittance;

He was sick.         .         .

very, very sick.       .       .

It was 1993

He didn’t say he was gay

.            .            .I   didn’t   ask.

I introduced myself and explained why I was coming by to visit him.

I asked if he was comfortable and if there were was a Church or someone he wanted me to contact?

He told me that he grew up Catholic and had fallen away.         .         .

that he never felt comfortable or was made to feel welcome.       .       .

  He told me that

 ‘t   h   e        s   t   o   r   i   e   s’ 

didn’t ever make much sense to him

and felt like it was a little late to make any sense of them now.     .     .

He told me that he was a professional Ice-Skater/Choreographer

and really missed being with his students;

While we talking an Aide brought in his lunch–

Soup.     .     .

some orange jiggly jello.     .     .

a toasted cheese sandwich.     .     .

a carton of milk.      .       .

and an extra side of sandwich;

There were tears in his eyes which started streaming down his cheeks.      .       .

and before I could say another word.        .         .

“THEY  do this three times a day.      .      .

THREE TIMES.        .        .

and then walk out thinking I can feed myself.       .       .”

He half laughed as he started sobbing

“JESUS CHRIST.     .     . I’M  IN  HERE  BECAUSE  I  CAN’T  FEED  MYSELF!”

We both started laughing.     .     .

I opened up his milk carton and put a straw in it and gave him a sip

I cut his toasted cheese sandwich into small squares and gave him a bite

I brought the bowl of soup to his lips so he could sip it

I put a spoon in the jello and brought a small spoonful of jiggle to his mouth

I wiped his chin when another sip of milk dribbled out

and I held his hand

and I held his hand

and I held his hand

and I held his hand

and asked him if he wanted me to offer a prayer.     .     .

He put his other hand over top of mine

and didn’t look up

for what seemed like a longer than a significant moment could ever hold;

He spoke very slowly and almost in a sigh:

“You know. . .

I can’t remember the last time that anyone has ever touched me without having to.    .    .

I can’t remember anyone ever touching me without gloves on or wearing protective clothing. . .

I can’t remember.      .      .   

I can’t remember.      .      .

I can’t remember.      .      .      .”

he said over and over again.

I broke the trance

by asking him again if it would be okay if I offered him that prayer.       .       .

I’ll never forget what he said next:

“YOU   JUST   DID”

I said what you usually do a the end of a prayer as I squeezed his hand:

“a        m        e        n”  

T            O            U            C            E            D

It wasn’t the first time

it certainly hasn’t been the last time

but   I’m   at   the   very   best   of   me 

when I  can’t  answer,

t r u t h f u l l y

WHO    

 TOUCHED  

   WHO ?