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Touching the resurrection

One of the nurses on the wonderful PBS show “Call the Midwife” is Lucille Anderson, who came from Jamaica  to serve the poor in London’s East End in the 1960s.  She first arrived at Nonnatus House,  the home and headquarters of the order of nuns and nurses  among whom she would work,  by walking for miles through a snowstorm  after her train got stuck.  She very quickly fell ill,  her fever diagnosed not by a thermometer  but by the compassionate touch of hand to forehead  by one of the nuns.  Lucille herself knows the power of touch.  When racism rears its ugly head as she goes about her work,  and her colleagues try to find the words  to express their outrage and sorrow,  Lucille reminds them  that this is not the first time she has been rejected.  There was a cost to her calling.  Often, she said, white patients  did not want her to touch them  as if they were afraid  that the black might rub off onto their own skin. Touch is such an intimate and powerful thing  that some shrink

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