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As a kid, Aaron was terrified of the trembling old woman who reached for him at church every Sunday. Years later, a simple handshake revealed the heartbreaking reason why—and left him with a memory that never faded.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
I didn’t expect her to say this when I shook her trembling hand—because as a little kid, I was afraid of her. But what she said to me? I still think about it to this day.
I have to admit—as a kid, I had an aversion to church. My mom took us to St. Paul’s, a really nice little church in our town. The Reverend back then was great—his sermons actually connected with me, even as a kid. But they had a high turnover rate with pastors. He was there a few years and then gone. The new guy? Fine. But here’s my thing—then and now: if you’re preaching a sermon and can’t fire me up to go do something good in the world, what are we doing?
On top of that, my parents had just divorced. So I was already upset, and I fought back against just about everything my mom asked us to do. Especially church. I didn’t want to get dressed. I hated waking up early. I was starving through the service. The wafer was never enough. I was a snotty, complaining kid.
There’s this one time my mom took us to a Christmas church program—cookies, fireplace, three wise men mural, the works. Someone took a picture of me—arms crossed, scowling. That photo’s out there somewhere, maybe in someone’s house. But I can see it in my head. And honestly? I’m embarrassed by it now. Because I’m 40—the same age my mom was then. A single mom just trying to do right by us. I wish I’d had more grace.
Now here’s the part that brings it full circle.
Every week, we were late. Mostly our fault—my brother and I dragging our feet, fighting in the car. We’d sneak in during the middle of the service, doing this little walk-of-shame loop to our usual pew. And every time, we’d pass this woman—this super old lady in the back corner. Not just elderly—old. Like 105+. The rumor was that nobody in the congregation could remember a time she wasn’t old. Even the other old folks said that.
But to me? As a kid? She was terrifying.
Because she’d reach out as I walked by. Her hand would tremble, and she’d try to grab me. Or she’d motion for me to come closer. It was like something out of a horror movie. And I made it my mission to avoid her. Never make eye contact. Just get to the pew.
Eventually, I told my mom about her during the ride home.
My mom said, “Did you ever think maybe she just wants to say hi?”
And honestly? No. I hadn’t. I was too wrapped up in my own junk.
So the next Sunday, I tried something new. We walked in, took the loop around the back, and she reached out again. I reached out too.
We shook hands.
And then she pulled me in close and said, “God bless you. Every Sunday I see you—you remind me of my son.”
I said, “Oh, that’s nice.”
She said, “My son passed away very young. So when I see you, it reminds me of him.”
And in that moment—something happened. Her eyes lit up. Mine did too. And I swear, as I looked at her, I could almost see a younger version of her. It was surreal.
From then on, every Sunday, I’d stop and shake her hand. She became my friend.
Eventually, I hit my teen years and stopped going to church altogether. Maybe that aversion crept back in. Maybe I was just ready to explore something else.
And then, on my very last Sunday there—I didn’t see her.
Until I read the bulletin.
She had passed away.
On the drive home, I thought about her a lot. All the handshakes and hellos I missed.
And my mom said, “It’s too bad about our friend, huh?”
I said, “Yeah. But I think she’s okay.”
She asked, “What do you mean?”
I said, “I think she went to go visit her son.”
