“Good morning to you! Good morning to you! We’re all in our places, with sun shining faces. And this is the way, to start a new day.”

Funny how certain childhood memories stay forever. Growing up, my mother happily greeted my sisters and me with that sweet little chorus every morning. The lights would come on (a terrible shock to a slumbering little soul), and the music would begin. I remember throwing the pillow over my head, wondering how in the world she could be so alive at such a ridiculous time of day. I dreaded the song but loved it at the same time.

How true it is, that as parents, we repeat some of the very things we disliked as a child. I guess I thought my kids would appreciate the cheery little tune and the startling splash of light, because I passed it on. After all, a family needs traditions, don’t they? I learned rather quickly, however, that my energetic approach to starting their day was not only resented but brought on obvious signs of aggression and borderline verbal abuse! I finally gave up in their teenage years, when they could “take me” physically. There comes a point in time when every parent must admit defeat. And so I sadly gave the last rites to the “Good morning to you!” tune and reluctantly buried tradition.

The years passed, but the challenge of getting my sixteen-year-old out of bed in the morning had not. A night-owl by nature, he could sleep through three alarms, a blaring stereo, and the jet stream of a spray bottle. I know, because I tried them all. It was time for something drastic. But before I could think of anything more creative, my sweet little sleepy head volunteered his own solution.

“Mom, just sit on the edge of my bed and pet me.”

I remember laughing hysterically. But what did I have to lose? I promised I’d give it a go.

It was magic. A gentle touch, a kiss on the cheek, and a quick back rub was the secret to resurrecting my hibernating bear cub. Amazing. The age-old, “Good morning to you!” had been forever replaced by a simple, yet very effective touch.

The Bible tells us of a woman with such a touch. One that caused Jesus, pressed on all sides by an excited crowd, to ask who it was that touched him. His disciples, shocked that he was aware of any specific contact, reminded him of the multitude clamoring all around. But Jesus recognized the woman’s touch as something quite distinctive from all the others. What was it about hers that caused him to stop and search for its source?

We could venture several guesses, but perhaps the real question should be, “How can I touch Jesus with the kind of touch worthy of his attention?”

We love God, and so we sit down to read a chapter in the New Testament, a chapter in the Old, and throw in a Psalm for good measure. We pride ourselves in fulfilling our Christian duty by attending church regularly, praying with our kids at bedtime, and mentally checking off our list of religious do’s and don’ts. But have we really touched him? Have we, with all our good intentions, given him reason to “break from the crowd” and turn in our direction?

The Greek meaning of the word “touch” in this scripture is, “to attach oneself to.” This woman may have only made physical contact with the hem of Jesus’ garment, but her spirit and everything inside her was completely, unhesitantly given to him. Hers was not a casual brushing passed him, but a total attachment of her spirit to his. Thus, the distinction in her touch. A touch that said, “I’m desperate, and you’re the only answer for me.” A touch so rich in faith that it charged the atmosphere around him. A touch so unique, so focused, that power went out from him.

You and I have a choice. We can be one who casually brushes up against Jesus as we walk along with the crowd; or we can attach ourselves to him with faith, desperation, and great expectation. So much is communicated in a touch. Let’s put it to good use. Whether waking a slumbering teenager or grabbing hold of an incomparable God, it’s all in the touch, my friend. It’s all in the touch.