Recently, I witnessed a moment in a story which has burned
itself into my memory.
If I had gotten a picture of it, I would print it and hang
it on my wall, and it would certainly be worth a thousand words.
If I were an artist and could draw or paint with any level
of accuracy, I would spend hours perfecting the capture of that moment.
But I neither have a photograph of it nor the visual
artistic skills to reproduce it. So instead I turn to the medium where I think
I have slightly more talent: writing and words.
Picture this:
It’s a Sunday morning at Kasana Community Church, which
means the simple wooden benches are full of people, arranged in rows throughout
the open-air structure (a concrete slab with telephone pole-like pillars and a
sheet metal roof).
The congregation is in the midst of the praise and worship
part of the meeting, which typically lasts 30-45 minutes. The songs are sung in
a mixture of Lugandan and English, since there are both non-native missionaries
and non-English speaking members in the congregation. The “praise” songs are
almost always accompanied by loud clapping, with occasional punctuations from
an African-style “ayiyiyiyiyi!” or lyrically-appropriate motions such as
spinning around or running in place. The “worship” songs are usually more
low-key and reflective, as some people take their seats.
{That’s all just setting the scene J}
I was walking from the front of the church to my seat when I
saw the image which burned into my brain. I don’t remember what song we were
singing at that moment….it doesn’t make much of a difference though.
Sitting on the outside edge of the very front row was a little boy, probably about six years old. His dark face beamed as he joined in the praise music. He held a small guitar/ukulele, on which he strummed away. Clearly his whole heart and soul were pouring into participating fully in that moment.
It may be that he would have caught my attention if that
were the only thing special about him. But it wasn’t. This little boy was
sitting when the vast majority of the congregation was standing, because he was
in a wheelchair. He is one of the children who is part of the special needs program provided by New Hope Uganda.
Behind the little boy’s wheelchair stood one of the gentlemen
who helps care for these kids. He leaned on a crutch, his constant companion
even when pushing one of the children in their chairs, because of what appears
to be a shorter leg and turned-out foot on one side.
The young one’s entire countenance showed the joy of his
heart. He could have been moping because he was stuck in a wheelchair, unable
to walk or run as other children his age. I’m sure there are plenty of other
reasons, even in his short life, which would excuse a good dose of self-pity.
But that’s not where his focus was. His focus was—consciously or unconsciously—on
worshipping God. I don’t know what that little boy’s story is, physically or
spiritually. But I do know that he brought a smile to my face, praise to my
mind, and conviction to my heart.
And that image has stayed with me in the days since. One
afternoon since then, I was sitting “watching” members of the New Hope family playing
football (soccer for you Americans) and making small talk introductions with
the man sitting on the ground in front of me. One of my neighbor girls sat in
my lap. Then beside me appeared the same little boy, angling himself into
position and locking his chair’s wheel.
He greeted the little girl, because they are in the same
class when he joins the kids at the on-site primary (elementary) school one day
per week. He still had a grin on his face, not that much different than when I
had seen him strumming his heart out in church.
Almost hidden behind the wheel of was a sticker, indicating
that he had received his chair from Joni Eareckson Tada’s international
ministry. On his feet were red felt slippers, decorated with whiskers. Those
were cats, he told me. We talked for a little bit, and I learned his name.
After a few moments, someone came and wheeled him away.
I think it was then I saw the crutch lying beside the man in
front of me. As I had been talking to him, I had noticed nothing different or
unusual. But as with the little boy, this gentleman faces daily challenges that
are different than what I have to deal with. But I guess it’s a reminder of the
fact that each and every one of us has parts of our lives which are hurt or not
fully functional. Some of us can just hide it better than others.
But when we hide it, are we really doing anyone a service?
When I try to act like there’s nothing wrong with me, that I have everything
together, aren’t I really doing one of the silliest things possible? These two
members of the Kasana community seem to have learned something far better than
I have. They both deal with what the world calls “disabilities.” But, by what I
have witnessed, I think it is safe to say that they have made the decision not
to be bound by that.
My brief interactions with them make them heroes of the
everyday variety, in my mind’s perception. They do not allow themselves to
wallow in self-pity or to be held captive by their situations. They do not seem
to see themselves as victims. Instead, they seek out the positives. They bring
joy. And I pray God’s blessing on them for that.
{Last night I saw the little boy again. This time, he sat
beside one of the caregivers on a bench, leaning against her for support, his
wheelchair out of sight for the time being. The event was a concert by two of
Kasana’s sons in the local town nearby. Again, my little friend demonstrated
his love for music. His guitar remained at home – but that didn’t keep him from
dancing with his upper body, his face again radiating joy. And so, I send this
post out for him. Never let the music die out of your heart, little buddy. God
is with you.}
