The Courage to Come Close

I marked the final step in saying goodbye to my treatments earlier this week.

My Hickman line was removed, the line which loyally provided my body chemotherapy (and many other medications) via my superior vena cava.

What is usually a straightforward, minor 20-minute surgery turned into a more complicated two-hour procedure. My body didn’t seem willing to let it go.

The surgeon needed to do more work than expected to extricate the Hickman from my chest. Being awake and in such close proximity to a stranger during the procedure was a very strange experience — similar to that of being at the dentist, except being able to talk and with my bra off.

It is in these vulnerable and intimate moments that I have learned so much about myself and others. I have become comfortable with strangers being in such close proximity, entering my space, inviting people to help me and come near in ways that I would have never allowed in the past.

In the Christian story, there is an ancient image of God breathing life into humanity. Not from a distance, but through closeness — through breath.

It is an intimate beginning. Human life began in a moment face-to-face with God.

This bears striking resemblance to a hongi.

On paper, it is straightforward: a hongi is the traditional Māori greeting of two people pressing their noses and foreheads together.

But beneath the surface lies something far richer — hongi is the sharing of ha (the breath of life).

Not just a hello, but a recognition: your life and mine are not separate in this moment. We meet not as strangers passing by, but as people who are willing to share the same air, the same space, a sacred closeness.

So much of modern life operates on cruise control, and our greetings reflect this. A passing nod, a quick "hi, how are ya?" These exchanges perform a social function, but they rarely transform or actually connect.

The act of hongi is different.

It slows down our interactions.

It reminds us that we are not alone.

We remember that life is not meant to be lived at arm's length.

It shows us that community, connection, communion — however we put it — is critical for our vitality.

At the end of our lives, it may not be the great gestures that shape us most, but these shared, sacred moments of breath. Where we meet one another fully, and find that life is richer for it.

These quiet moments might be our most transformative.

And when I think of mine, they all involve people.

What would it look like, in one small moment this week, to choose connection over rushing?

Written in memory of Chris Reilly and Edwin McEachen.

Photo by Aqshal Faiq on Unsplash.