raised His hands and blessed them
Villmer, Assistant
Principal
~ I grew up in a little house in Affton. I was almost born in that house. My parents lived there for 58 years, and just recently, we moved them out. It was a painful, anxiety-filled experience of grief and transition that so many families endure. That beloved home held both joy and sorrow. It was where hearts were formed, relationships were nurtured, and faith in a God of abundance and provision was quietly lived out each day.
Jeff and I were the last to leave the house … for the last time.
From the time I was 16 years old—driving our family’s aging Volkswagen bus—to countless cars that carried me to college, back from Atlanta as a young wife with two babies and a dog, and through every season of life after that, there was one constant. Every single time I left that house, my dad would stand at the full-length glass front door, raise his right hand, and bless me on my way.
Over the years, I came to treasure that ritual. I looked for it. I would wave with my window down and give a little toot-toot of the horn as I drove away. In recent years, each departure carried a quiet ache within me: Might this be the last time?
As I closed that front door forever, tears came quickly. Through muffled words, I said to my husband, “There’s no one here to bless us now. Who is going to bless us on our way?”
In that moment, I felt loss and lost. The outward sign that had always reminded me I was loved, cared for, and sent forth with blessing seemed to be gone.
I can only imagine the apostles felt something similar as they watched Jesus ascend into heaven. Now what? He’s gone. What do we do?
Loss. Fear. Uncertainty.
Yet before He ascended, Jesus did not leave them abandoned. He gave them a promise: “And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). And as He departed, “He raised His hands and blessed them” (Luke 24:50).
At 90, my dad has always been remarkably healthy. But as the Lord would have it, that very night after we closed the house for the last time, my mom called at 2:30 in the morning. Dad was being taken by ambulance to the hospital. He was completely disoriented.
I threw on shoes, picked up Mom, and hurried to the emergency room. Afraid of what I might find, I walked in and saw Dad lying there—small, frail, eyes closed in a way I had never seen before. I stood beside him silently. He slowly opened his eyes, and we simply looked at one another. No words were spoken.
Then, with an ever so noticeable smile, with trembling effort, he slowly raised his right hand.
And in that sacred silence, he blessed me once more:
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Throughout the year, we present an article in the bulletin each week on a variety of topics, written by a member of our Parish staff or ministries on a rotating basis.
