Being Fed With Stone Soup
The quiet surgeon went on to explain how his life had gone
from being the doctor to being the patient in a span of about 60 minutes. One moment he’s a surgeon doing what he
believed God had designed him to do, the next moment he’s looking at his own
x-rays which reveal that he’s now a cancer victim with less than 3 years life
expectancy. Somehow, at the end of all
this he was able to say “I thank God for the cancer”.
From that sobering testimony, the pastor turned to face a
tent full of individuals who have their own sobering realities stuffed into
bodies that are “imperfect” by conventional standards. He was able to face them and with words that
defy logic, speak how each developmental difference was in fact more special
than different, more a gift than a curse.
That one set me back a bit. The
tent was alive with human movement but little of it would be welcomed as special in most of the world. Jesus’s absurd metaphor came to mind, the one
where he says “no loving father would
give a stone or a snake to a hungry child who asks for bread”. None of the people in this tent asked to be
here, none asked to have the dis-abilities that they carry. Most have prayed not to be cured but perhaps
to limp a little bit less. Most of their
caregivers prayed not for healing but for relief and from what I could see at
the moment, the answer to the prayer seemed to be conditional. The enormity of it all began to overwhelm me
as I sat there with a broken daughter on my left, a heartbroken, widowed father
on my right, and my still-exhausted wife cautiously handing fruit snacks across
an empty seat to my left-hooking daughter.
I looked across the noisy tent and boldly used the word dis-ability in my mind as I wrestled
with this. I tried developmental difference and while it felt less offending a term, I
knew that it was only putting a nicer face on an ugly reality. These people were broken and the broken-est one was sitting right next to me trying
to punch her mother.
Then I saw his face.
The young man was a visitor and he too suffered from dis-ability. He was dancing around with joy as he held
onto a vacuum cleaner, dancing and running and pushing the thing like it was
the greatest invention that life could offer.
One of the other broken people knew that this man loved vacuum cleaners
and brought it to the tent for the sole purpose of affording him this joy. Then again, I saw his face. I looked at his eyes from 30 feet away and I
saw absolutely nothing. I saw no pain, I
saw no confusion, I saw nothing but gentle love for everything that he
encountered. I closed my eyes and
listened to the cacophony around me for a moment, trying for the life of me to
reconcile it with the thought of someone asking for the snakes or stones. I couldn’t logically connect the two, surely no
one would ask for this.
Again, I saw his eyes.
He’d moved further into the tent, having surrendered the vacuum cleaner
for two plastic rattles; the props had changed but the eyes were the same –
full of gentle love for whatever he was encountering. Something about those eyes and the fact that
they were here at this point in MY time was starting to mesh. I nearly laughed
as the image of Charleston Hesston playing the movie role of Judah Ben Hur popped into my mind: “I know this man”! My silly mind made a dramatic, Hollywood connection
– those eyes. I was beginning to wonder
if those two people were destined to travel all this way simply to teach me a non-verbal
lesson? That lesson was becoming clearer
each time I saw his eyes.
Somehow his soft expression taught me that it’s not my job
to understand broken-ness. It’s not my
job to fix broken-ness. It’s not my job
to judge broken-ness. The only job I had
was to be here in this tent, on this evening, with these people, for this
moment. My job was to see this young
man’s eyes – to see his mother’s smile and to know that of all the broken
things in this tent, I was the broken-est.
Me, not Bethany, not the
surgeon, not the visitor, me. His eyes were perfect, mine were
occluded. His eyes taught me that all
are broken, even the perfect one was broken and I was guilty of having begun to
look at the world “with and not through the eye”.
This tent on that night became the most beautiful place on
earth because to be broken is to surrender to a power that is far greater than
mine. The people in this tent know that
surrender and they feel this power; they’ve mastered seeing through the eye and
they know that “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me”.
Amen David. Thanks for your thoughtful insights as usual. God is good and near.
ReplyDeleteYour mind is like a pool. It has a deep and a shallow end and a filter. You raise the bar for everybody with your humor, wisdom and kindness. You da Man Dave....You da Man
ReplyDeleteIf you have read dancing with max, then you know there was a struggle ,but Jesus brought good out of it.
ReplyDelete