I won’t let you go until you bless me

I am finishing up my visit with them in the rehab center. And this whole time, I felt the anointing oil flask in my pocket burning in my consciousness, somewhat like the ring I had hidden in my pocket all those years ago when I proposed to my wife.

It was calling to me to take it out and use it.

Why do I tremble?

Like a fumbling proposal, I ask, “Can I give you a blessing before I go?”

“Of course,” they said. And smiled. Like they’ve been waiting this whole time.

I took it out of my pocket, unscrewed the cap, and let the scented oil come into the air.

After praying for them to be made well, I put the oil on my finger and drew it near to their forehead to make the sign of the cross. My hand quivered a little, and I felt as though there was a magnetic resistance between us. Some force that didn’t want the blessing to take place.

But surely it wasn’t them who was resisting — they had their eyes closed, and neck almost jutted out, ready to be anointed.

It was me who was afraid of giving this blessing — of breaking the barrier of the accepted norms of personal space.

It reminds me of the way I feel when I put ashes on people’s foreheads at the beginning of Lent.

Why would anyone let me cross this personal boundary? To come so close?

I think it is because they know I am their priest. And they won’t let me go until I bless them.