The Hand of Jesus

It was a very cold night for July, but then again, we were walking in the woods. All of the kids around my age and the counselors were walking back to our shelters after “Fireside,” when we all have a devotional time with praise songs, skit, and a lesson. It was very dark, too, excepting the occasional tunnel of light from a flashlight.

I was nine years old that summer, and it was my second time at overnight camp at Woodcrest Retreat in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I came with my friend Katie for a week this time instead of three days like the first time. Walking with no one beside me on the path and still in shock from the shelter that had burnt down while I was there, I was very cold, lonely, and scared, and I stumbled over many rocks and roots in my way, shivering all the while.  

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I was very frightened – there were no flashlights nearby, and I had forgotten mine. Everyone else was either a little ways ahead of me or behind me.  Remembering a sermon at church not long ago, I took our pastor’s advice and whispered, “Jesus” through chattering teeth.

Instantly, I felt pressure and warmth on my hand, just like when someone holds it. It felt like someone was holding my hand, walking beside me on the path. The warmth spread throughout my whole body and I no longer felt the cold, no longer felt fright- ened. I felt overjoyed, like I was no longer alone. I kept walking, feeling like I could fly over the rocks and roots. I no longer stumbled. The pressure on my hand left, but the warmth, calmness, and peace stayed. It was the most incredible feeling I ever felt.

I will not know for certain until I get to heaven, but I declare that Jesus held my hand that night.