God's Under the Bed
(Author Unknown)
My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's what I
heard him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and
I stopped outside his closed door to listen.
"Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed."
I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room.
Kevin's unique
perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that night something
else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first time the very
different world Kevin lives in. He was born 30 years ago, mentally
disabled as a result of difficulties during labor.
Apart from his size
(he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult. He reasons
and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he always
will. He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that
Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas,
and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them.
I remember
wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with
his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop
for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, returning to eat his
favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed. The only
variation in the entire scheme are laundry days, when he hovers excitedly
over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He does not
seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager
for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water
boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to
gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores.
And Saturdays--oh,
the bliss of Saturdays! That's the day my dad takes Kevin to the airport
to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on the
destination of each passenger inside. "That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!"
Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can
hardly sleep on Friday nights.
I don't think Kevin
knows anything exists outside his world of daily rituals and weekend field
trips. He doesn't know what it means to be discontent.
His life is simple.
He will never know the entanglements of wealth or power, and he does not
care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. He
recognizes no differences in people, treating each person as an equal and
a friend. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one
day they may not be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as
when he is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet,
his heart is completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is
begun, and he does not leave a job until it is finished. But when his
tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with his work
or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone tells
the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize
instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin
is not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry.
He is always
transparent, always sincere. And he trusts God. Not confined by
intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a child.
Kevin seems to know God--to really be friends with Him in a way that is
difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest
companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity, I
envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It is then that I am most
willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that rises above my
mortal questions. It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with
the handicap--I am. My obligations, my fear, my pride, my
circumstances--they all become disabilities when I do not submit them to
Christ. Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn?
After all, he has
spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and
soaking up the goodness and love of the Lord. And one day, when the
mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God
really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of
a boy who believed that God lived under his bed. Kevin won't be surprised
at all.
Grandpa's Hands
....This is good...I'll never look at my hands the same!
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn't
move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I sat down
beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I
wondered if he was OK.
Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at
the same time, I asked him if he was OK. He raised his head and looked at
me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," he said in a clear
strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here
staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I explained
to him.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," he asked. "I mean really looked at
your hands?" more
What's
in a good soup? Love, laughter, good friends!
Entree
HomeMade
