Toms

The man with the needle looked more nervous than I was.

He pawed through paperwork, then picked up the syringe between inexpert fingertips and fumbled for a cleaning wipe. He was gray at the temples, kind-looking, and definitely not a medical professional.

His name was Tom, and his name tag said hello. He gave my arm a swipe.

I eeped a bit when the needle got close to my arm, but the actual injection didn’t hurt a bit. Afterward, Tom produced a bandage, taking his best guess at where it should go when the injection site got lost among the freckles on my arm.

As I walked away, Tom shifted in his folding chair and got ready for the next person.

With his blue denim shirt and uncertain smile, he seemed out of place in a makeshift medical clinic in an empty mall storefront. I wish I’d asked him how many vaccinations he’d given, or what he did when he wasn’t putting new life in people’s arms.

Tom wasn’t a pro at the vaccination thing, that was clear.

I think, maybe, he was just a guy who had volunteered to help, and they handed him a needle, and he said, “OK.”

Nice guy, that Tom.

As of Friday, more than 170 million doses of the COVID-19 vaccine had been administered in the U.S., with about 5 million of those going into Michiganders’ arms.

Each one of those doses was given by a set of hands.

How many Toms would it take to poke 170 million needles into 170 million arms?

That’s a lot of Toms.

Somewhere, out there, a whole slew of people who don’t know exactly what they’re doing, haven’t been trained as superheroes, and may be squeamish about jabbing people with needles are feeling a little nervous.

Yet, there they are, shuffling papers and sitting on uncomfortable folding chairs and slapping on bandages and healing the world.

Toms are beautiful.

Of course, Toms aren’t relegated to vaccine clinics.

Everywhere you look, people are poking those around them to make sure they’re OK.

A coworker, having a bad day herself, sends a caring text.

A church member brings you a plate of cookies.

A trusted voice offers words of guidance, even though they are difficult to say.

Someone you barely know picks up a phone to tell you you did something right.

Staggering, the power of those little pokes.

They give life.

Granted, the people doing the poking may not be experts at it, and they may fumble a bit. Their pokes may pinch, and they may miss the mark when applying a bandage.

But they’re doing it, by golly.

All around, lovely people are taking little stands, speaking little truths, holding up what’s right and resolutely choosing kindness and empathy and forgiveness, reaching beyond themselves into lives of others who need them, even if it’s only with a word, or a nod, or a smile above a mask.

It tugs the heart, thinking of all those people, all those pokes.

The God who made a world and washed it with a flood and washed it again with the blood of HIs Son doesn’t just sit on a cloud and watch us crawl about, hurting and befuddled.

He doesn’t just say He loves us and then call it good enough.

He comes to us, God does. He invests in our lives, gets up close and personal, injects His love into our day-to-days to help us be OK.

And He does it by using people.

The Toms who sit on a folding chair all day, smiling comfortingly. The tired grocery store clerks who say, “Have a nice day,” and mean it. The friends and coworkers and strangers who say what needs to be said, offering doses of kindness and compassion and truth.

I bet they don’t know they’re giving God-pokes.

In the middle of muddling through life, it’s easy to not notice all the goodness around us, the kindness and courage and determination in the people who people our world. Hubbub and discord can blind us to the love that’s flowing toward us from all sides through the hands and words and hearts of beautiful humans who, in the midst of plugging away at their own lives, pause to take care of one another.

One syringe at a time, willing hands are bringing new life to the world.

One person at a time, the God who gives life offers booster shots, enabling His children to reach into the lives of others with love made visible, Toms everywhere.

Perhaps, today, I can give a poke, too.

First published in The Alpena News on April 10, 2021.