holding hands

I don't care for cliches. Those expressing their ideas in fresh ways should, I believe, avoid them-even if their ideas are recycled concepts summarized well by some cliche. Finding the right words of your own, I believe, is always more interesting than repeating someone else's. Having said all that, here comes a cliche. I don't know to whom to attribute it-could be Moses, could be Jesus, could be Confucius, could be Plato, could be Abraham Lincoln, could be Bob Dylan, could be my grandmother-and I'm not even exactly sure how it goes. But the essence is this-"I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes, 'til I met a man who had no feet."

Today, at 7:30, the alarm went off for me to get up for church. The boys and I agreed the night before we were all going, and as the spiritual mugwump of the house, it was my duty to follow through. But the sheets were cool, the pillow was just right, the dog was sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed, the boys had been out until 12:30 or so, so getting up seemed less than attractive. I decided the late service would be ok, and reset the alarm for 8:30. Well, an hour later was not much more attractive, but I shouldered my duty, and got up. It all seemed such a chore-making coffee, showering, getting dressed, getting the boys up, trying to allow enough time to stop for Shmuffins, eating 2 of them in about 5 gulps so we wouldn't be late, dealing with the between-services parking lot chaos, and finally, finding good seats. During the brief time of detox between sitting down and the worship team cranking up the first song, I felt smugly satisfied with my self for having surmounted all these obstacles and leading my family through the spiritual warfare, arriving safely at Church. As the worship began, my attention was drawn to my left, to a group of people sitting in a cluster who were either "signing" along with the songs and commentary, or watching a lady who was sitting on a taller seat, facing them all, and "signing" everything that was said or sung. They're there every week. We don't generally sit close enough to their section to actually watch, though. Some, I deduced, were "signers" in training, following the lead of the woman on the stool. Others were hearing impaired, and dependent on the skills of the lead "signer" to translate the service for them. I couldn't stop watching one young man in particular, late twenties probably, who was not only deaf, but blind as well. He had a person sitting face to face with him, and he held her hands to feel her signing. There was so much I wanted to know! How in the world does this dear soul get himself to church? How much of the information the rest of us heard and saw was he able to receive? Does he get, say, fifty percent? Or eighty percent? Does his mind "connect the dots" in ways that comprehension is achieved? And what about the non-verbal elements-sarcasm, irony, urgency, or the communication nuances in tone of voice, and gesture, and timing. Does he know when the congregation laughed, or when they fell very still when the message was poignant and moving? Do signers, skilled ones, have ways of imparting those subtleties we take for granted? And who was this girl, who lovingly, generously "spent" her worship time in service-difficult, skillful service to another. What a snapshot of what true Christian servanthood looks like-being the eyes and ears for someone whose own have failed. Isn't that what all our gifts, and resources, and wealth, and time, and talents are for? If we profess to follow Christ, are not all those things-every thing we have-to be made available to those who have not? Especially others in the Kingdom? This dear girl gave away her hands so another could participate in worship. I look at these two beautiful people and am ashamed of my own selfish addiction to comfort, and sloth, and "stuff". I know nothing, NOTHING of the difficult lives so many others live, like this young man without sight or hearing who came to worship his King. Most of the world would be overwhelmed by the lives of relative ease, and comfort, and luxury we enjoy. But am I, of my own nature, compelled to raise my arms in adoration, and thanksgiving, and humility? Do I have a deep desire that my abundance be shared, used by those in need? No, I grumble how tough I have it when the alarm goes off Sunday morning.

jls