Words define and guide us

“I, personally, prefer to use the word "sight" rather than "vision" because one can possess much vision with no sight; while the converse results in sighted people who are by no stretch of the imagination, visionaries. Blindness, to whatever degree, is simply the absence of sight; vision is quite another matter.”

- Chet Smalley, Blindness and mobility specialist, Erie, PA.

A few days ago, I was asked to participate in a survey of a doctoral student at Louisiana Tech University because my mobility specialist thought that I could “contribute positively” to this research. I was reminded of how far I had come from that covert, secretly-out-of-my-element, ha-ha, sorry-so-clumsy-today young woman. Few knew then that I struggled with Retitinitis Pigmentosa, a progressive eye disease robbing me of my sight. Today - one year later to the day - I use a cane, smile a lot and can speak openly about my RP.

However, my ever-vigilant mobility instructor alerts me to language in my speech that he believes holds me back from becoming the best that he knows I can be. The other day, he pinpointed something in my correspondence to him that made me realize he had my best interest at heart. He said, "You, for example, Amy, still think of your blindness as a "condition" rather than one of your many characteristics." I had said that I wanted to befriend a young woman I knew of who had RP. I felt she was avoiding the meeting and concluded that it was probably "a little frightening [for her] to think of meeting another person with vision problems."

He was quick to respond, "Look at the language you are using: the words "vision" and "problem." "Problem" is the use, in my view, of deficit language. "Blind" can also be construed as a "deficit" word until one becomes acquainted with blind people who are productive, happy and well-adjusted to their blindness. Blind people by the thousands are demonstrating that the world need not be interacted with just by way of sight."

Chet went on to say that "blindness when perceived as a characteristic, instead of a "disability" can become just one component of an otherwise fulfilled person." I realized when I read his words that although I had made progress on this continuum of accepting myself as blind, I still had a journey before I would be comfortable thinking of blindness as simply another characteristic of myself. I wonder how one gets to that point?

Chet believes it is through immersion cane training and exposure to positive role models that enables one to truly adjust. He points out that "adjusting to blindness means living that to which one is hoping to adjust; and "living" can only be accomplished, well, by "living!" That makes sense, in theory. If using my cane becomes so second nature that I do see my blindness simply as another characteristic and not the defining characteristic of myself, will I have arrived at the understanding he envisions for me?

It is this question I grapple with now. If I intend to positively impact the lives of the blind students I envision myself teaching, then I must be certain that I have the best understanding of who I am with my unique capabilities and characteristics. This identity Chet describes has to come from within myself. It's not something I can put on or take off at random.

The question returns: how do I reduce a "condition" to simply one of many characteristics that makes me up? As always, God provides me with the answer.

In the book of Colossians, Paul exhorts his Christian brethren, "We have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of His will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding." (Col 1:9) This tells me that we have brothers and sisters who pray for this very thing in our lives. We have been told to ask God for wisdom, and assured that He will provide it for whatever need we have in our lives. Whether our application comes from an extended training session and advice through knowledgeable people, it is God that unveils the source and opportunities to us.

God has made me for many purposes, and if I choose to walk by my defining characteristic, my love for Him, then He will make everything clear in His perfect timing. As I grow and adjust to this continuum of blindness God has allowed me to go through, He will place markers along the way to guide me. I believe Chet’s attention to my “deficit” language is such a marker.

Paul goes on to say, "And we pray this [wisdom and understanding] in order that you might live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way, bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God..."(Col 1:10). Has he chosen for me to bear fruit in a new capacity now? I am so excited!

Lord, I lift you up! When I first became a teacher, I didn't believe I had the characteristics to be successful, and yet You have carried me through all my doubts. You have never given up on me. You have brought me to many peaks in my life, and shouldered my fears. As a result, I have moved ahead in my language teaching with foreign students. This has put me in a pivotal position to share your love in over thirty-three countries!

I know that every experience we go through prepares us to serve in bigger capacities. If it’s Your plan to change my teaching population and goals, bring everything I need to know to light so that I might bear fruit in my life, and bring You glory.

Thank you, Lord that even as my "sight" diminishes, You will continue to magnify my “vision.”

Mulberry Blessings

As I deal with the snow each day here, I find myself recalling the days when I had no snow. My house was surrounded by beautiful trees that bloomed all year round. Soft, ripe dates littered the ground beneath my feet. Jasmine and frangipani petals perfumed the air along the driveway and permeated throughout the tiled walkway leading up to my door. Bougainvillea splashed pastel colors along the front passage.

Best of all were the mulberry trees on my property. I had two by the corner of the house and one large one in the side yard. These were not bushes. They were actual trees. I was astonished to discover mulberries grew on branches and not vines!

Over a number of harvesting seasons, I saw that God used the mulberry trees to minister to me.

We moved into our house the first year after our twins died. That’s when I saw my first mulberry harvest. The largest tree, laden double with mulberries, stooped down like an old street vendor carrying every good he could sell on his back. The tree, like the vendor, seemed to call out to those who passed by.

The berry's long, uniform "druplets" felt smooth against my palm. It cried out, “Eat me!” That I did. I’d never eaten a mulberry before so I plucked the longest, heaviest, deepest purple berry that I could find. It tasted sweet, much like the blackberries I’d picked as a child near my house. But my mulberries tasted better than those scrawny blackberries. These were firmer, sweeter and juicier. More berry to savor! Right away I envisioned a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with a bunch of mulberries. Wasn't I the luckiest person on earth to have these trees?!

I was only working part-time that year, and the berries were so plentiful that early morning and late afternoons would be filled with harvesting the berries. Soon I became an expert fruit picker. I got to know the amount of pressure I’d need to separate the berry from the slender green stem that held it fast to the branch. My berry-stained, sore fingers attested to the work I put into this task. But the ripest ones simply fell into my hands as I reached for the branches. I had to tend to these ones carefully so as not to mash or drop them.

“There’s many on the ground” my housekeeper observed, “Why don’t you put a sheet or tarp down to catch those that fall?”

“That’s a good idea,” I agreed. It gave me great pleasure to gather these up and add them to my booty.

I had a small wooden step ladder I used to reach the higher branches. I’d drag it from spot to spot under the tree and up the stairs and onto the driveway to get clusters of berries at the tops of the branches.

Stray cats and the squawking of excited birds overhead surrounded me as I labored. The cats lazed in the sun and kept me company. The birds had no business there. “Shoo! Hey, get outta here! Fly away!” I’d pause and wave my arms to scare away the birds; they seemed intent on swiping morsels from the sweet fruit on my trees. “You’re not gonna steal my mulberries!” I had plans for this fruit.

Every few days, the pungent smell particular to black berries filled the kitchen as I simmered pot after pot of mulberries on the stove. I added some sugar, and then stirred the lumpy mixture with a wooden spoon to prevent scorching. Soon I had a thick, luscious syrupy mixture that I spooned into cobblers and pies and baked in my American oven. I looked up jelly recipes on the Internet and attempted them, too. That year I became a favorite at the college with my “Amish” cobblers and ice-cream topped desserts.

As I threw myself into this work, I realized God’s plan was to distract me from thinking so much about the loss of my twins. God outstretched His hand, touched the sun and ripened a crop full of berries over and beyond what I’d ever dreamed of. People told me they had never seen a harvest so plentiful. I was astounded.

The next year, there were slightly fewer berries in the harvest and the birds found more of them. I'd gone back to working full-time, so I wasn't as driven to pick every single one of them. I started to think, "These berries are God's blessings and who am I to choose who gets them? Do I need all of them? Perhaps I can share with the birds.”

That also brought to mind the sharing of myself. Why did I choose who to give my friendship to? Why didn't I just let God open doors for me and embrace whoever God brought to the door, open it and receive them? So I prayed that I would be more open and accessible to others instead of limiting myself to those I felt most comfortable around. Again, God used the mulberry trees to show me how He desired for me to respond to His voice. I was humbled.

The following year there were fewer berries than before. The berries on the two trees by the corner of my house literally dried up. Now that I was adjusting more to my loss each year, I wondered if God was taking away my dependence on these physical blessings to nurture my faith in the unseen. I believe God used that tree to show me how to grow my faith and enjoy those fruits as much as I had enjoyed the berries earlier. I was grateful.

That next year a new gardener started to work for me. I pointed out the mulberry trees and told him how I’d eagerly waited for them to ripen.

"Now I just have one tree. I think it's dying though. It didn’t have so many berries last year. So many of them shriveled up." I remarked.

"Let's wait and see," he replied “I’ll do what I can.”

My gardener nurtured that remaining tree. He watered it every day and planted fresh dirt around its base. He cleared it of any weeds. One day he surprised me by picking some berries. We both got excited by the results of his careful attention to my favorite tree. I looked forward to fresh berries, pies and cobblers again. But by now, I was so busy that I rarely made the pies and cobblers that I used to bake. I gave most of the berries away. Once I even forgot to take a bagful of berries into the house. When I found them hanging on the doorknob the next afternoon, I noticed they had a funny smell. They'd spoiled. Useless fruit--along with the efforts of my gardener--all wasted. My intentions were sincere but I didn't use up all these precious resources.

It reminded me that I wasn't even close to appreciating God’s blessings in my life, or using them for His glory. I started praying about the wasted fruit and efforts, and God led me to see another area of my life where I needed to improve.

When I asked God to do His work, and the opportunities came, why didn’t I jump in and carry them out? Was it doubt? Or did I get too busy to see the opportunities before me? Once again, God used His mulberry tree--that day to convict me of my carelessness in harvesting His fruit. That rancid bag reminded me that along with our blessings came the responsibility of doing something with them. I was sorrowful.

God used the mulberry trees to minister to me throughout many seasons of my life in the Emirates. I will never think of fruit in the same way again. It shows me that God is imaginative and specific in the way He handles our hurts and develops our Godly character.

I now try to be more appreciative of God’s abundance and I make myself look around to become aware of the opportunities God places before me and to use them. I also ask God to help me have an open heart to share myself with others. Most of all, I ask God for His vision to gather the best of His fruits from my own mulberry tree - me!

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

For where your treasure is, there your heart will also be. Matthew 6:21 NIV

“Hi, Aunt Amy. Talia and I came to visit you,”

I looked up to find Rachel, and her bubbly daughter.

At two-years-old, Talia already had an eye for beauty.

“Oooh. Babies! Open please,” she’d whisper when she saw the Japanese kokeshi dolls stored behind glass. She longed to touch the brightly-painted collection. That and everything else! My booty from foreign travels delighted her.

This time, Talia stopped at an ornate Indian shelf. This held several teapots from around the world. There, she spied one just her size! A miniature tea set from England.

“Hey, she’s never looked at that before!” I exclaimed. “When did she become interested in teapots?”

“Her aunt Emily gave her a play set for her birthday last week,”

We admired the tea set with its tiny rosebud pattern. It was, of course, very fragile. “You can’t find this in America,” I commented.

“no, Tali--.”

“Let her play,” I suggested.

Talia pretended to pour some tea into a cup. Then she added some cream. At last she drank it up. We chatted. She continued to play. A few minutes later, Talia stopped. She scuttled closer to Mama. “What is it, TT?”

One small hand clutched a slender handle. Our eyes traveled to the shelf where the creamer sat.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Amy,” Rachel gasped, “Her fingers are too clumsy to handle this stuff.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured. “It can be fixed. How about we keep this as Talia’s special tea set for when she comes to visit?”

Relief spread over Rachel’s face. “TT, isn’t that nice!”

Application: Realize our earthly treasures pale in comparison to us, God’s children, and what He has for waiting for us.

Taking on the Bistro

I left you in the heart of downtown Erie in the middle of Roar to the Shore. I was blindfolded and seeking out a specific restaurant to further test my "Acclimation to Blindness" skills by eating a meal when a tough Motorcycle Mama lit into me for tapping her motorbike with my cane. If you remember, our training fell on one of the craziest days of summer. Downtown Erie was holding a Block Party, which meant a lot more clutter on the sidewalks, which turned the task into a much more challenging task for little ol' blindfolded ME!
~~~~

"I don't think the restaurant is very far off, if I remember correctly," Chet warned.

That was my cue to ask for the address. So I stopped and turned to the first voice I heard, "What is the address here?" The speaker dutifully supplied it, and Chet clapped his hands in excitement, "As I figured. We're not far from our destination!" He was delighted. How did he figure these things out? He turned to me, "We need to get to Number 2027. We are on the correct street, right?"

"Yes," I affirmed.

"Will we stay on this side of the street or cross it? And then, which direction will we head?"

"We need to cross the street and go north."

"We'll cross Seventh from the northeast to the northwest corner," he corrected.

"Oh! Yeah!" I had no idea anymore or even that we were at a corner.

"Good!... After you!" Chet sounded very pleased.

I wanted to peek very badly to make sure I was going right because I had to lead us across the street. Chet was on my heels so I had to listen for the traffic and could not cheat! The way sounded clear so I gave Chet the go-ahead. He listened for just a moment to verify, and we were off!

I could feel a wide cement stairway and climbed five steps, felt for a door handle, and pulled. We were inside a building.

I asked for the address. "Yep, this is it! Let's go in!" Was I ready for this?

Entering the restaurant was a breeze. "My name's Dan and I'll be your waiter for the afternoon," he said as he took me by the arm, and gently escorted me to a round table on the left-hand side of the room. What a relief after all the obstacles outdoors! I folded up my cane and took a deep breath while he read the menu to us.

I could tell by the plush carpet, the silence surrounding us and the impeccable manners of the waiter that we had chosen an upscale bistro for our experiment.

Chet seemed put out temporarily that the waiter had escorted me, "Much better for you to have found the seat on your own...but no matter," he resigned himself, plotting for me to find my own way out, no doubt!

"Madame?"

"Ah," I bit my lip, "I'll have a cup of ... expresso," (I am not a coffee drinker but the surroundings called for something more elegant than my usual glass of water).

I chose some messy crepe, ice-creamy, sliced-banana, chocolate-syrupy type dessert. I am going out on a limb here. If I have to be blindfolded, I might as well make it worth my trouble. I’m not going to play it safe with a mere pudding you just have to scoop out with a spoon!

I could hear the waiter pouring water into what I discovered to be long-stemmed glasses a few minutes later. When I felt for the glass with my right hand, my fingers touched the cool condensation on the outside rim. I picked it up and took a sip. Refreshing!

"Madame, here is your turtle crepe. It is directly in front of you. Your fork is to the right of the plate.Your expresso is at 2:00." I had recently learned that the face of a clock is a good way for people to visualize where an object (usually food) is located in relation to them. This waiter knew his stuff!

I picked up the fork in one hand and knife with the other, and proceeded to cut the banana crepe. I unobtrusively snuck a finger to the plate to feel where the rim was. I didn't want it to slide off! Then I proceeded to cut and stab a piece of banana, swish it in the syrup and add the crepe to the fork. I lifted it to my mouth and took the bite. With the cloth napkin, I dabbed at my chin in case I missed my mark at all. We didn't talk much as I focused completely on mastering this task. When I finished, I felt for my cup of expresso. Oh lukewarm! Darn! I took too long to eat! Well, I can't figure out everything at once, now can I? Next time, I'll get it right...

The sunshine fell on my right side from the sunny window next to me. Were my other senses becoming more heightened, I wondered? Well, anyone can feel the sun coming through the window!

Chet and I chatted about the day's outing casually. I began to feel a little giddy from the experience...or was that the expresso?! I chided myself, "Calm down, girl!"

Now, how would I pay? I asked the waiter to read me the bill. Then I felt for my bills. Which was the ten and which was the one? I asked the waiter, and later had him count back my change.

"Now if you want to be certain about your change, and keep your independence, pay attention to what I'm going to say next."

Chet then explained different ways of folding the various money denominations to distinguish them for greater independence. A whole lesson, contextualized. As a teacher, I know this is the very best kind of lesson one can receive.

The bistro was a smashing success! Although Dan had disappeared, I led the way out of the restaurant just fine, fumbling a bit by the door but with my head held high, and my confidence soaring even higher.

"Who was that waitress who helped direct me to the door?" I asked afterwards.

"No, she wasn't a waitress. She was standing outside the door. So I guess she was just attending the block party and making herself useful." Chet observed.

"Oh!" I thought she was a waitress. How did Chet figure out these things? My completely blind trainer was so in tune with people and his surroundings! I felt awed.

But the best thing about my day was the van was located just across the street! I could take my blindfold off!

Thank you, thank you, thank you God for getting me through this afternoon!

Chet's lessons are the key to my future independence.

A Different Kind of Hokey Pokey

This entry isn't really about the Hokey Pokey (though there is a band in the story!) or even a cat. I just gave it this title to remind myself that life is something that needs participation, and the Hokey Pokey is something that most people really get into with their whole body. That's the way I want to live my life. I don't want my vision to hold me back. I want to enjoy myself!

~~~~

Tonight I tried out a "Church Café.” The band ‘Sellah’ was playing. My friend, Vicki, called to see if I wanted to go. What a coincidence! I’d also read about it on my Facebook page. Did I have energy for a night out!

I expected a rock band scenario singing Jesus music, that it would be dark, but minus the smoke and alcohol that a bar would contain. I envisioned some socializing, which would require some serious listening skills with the music going on. What was I getting myself into?!

My mom worried, “It’s going to be dark. Don’t forget your cane and wear your hearing aids.” I know. It sounds like she’s talking to an elderly aunt, doesn’t it?

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I have ‘em both!”

I am just forty-nine and use a blind man’s cane and old lady’s hearing aids. But they enable me to do things I wouldn’t do otherwise!

The café did indeed appear dark. ‘Sellah’ consisted of about ten women singing back-up, four men with various instruments and a lead singer who played the guitar. They belonged to Our Lady of the Peace Church. Pretty tame stuff! But at least it wasn’t blaring loud and I felt at ease. We liked the music anyway. They sang nice praise music as well as some old church hymns.

We got some coffee and pie, then sat down in some fold-up chairs. All the tables were taken. I really needed one to set my coffee and pie down on.

A few minutes later, my friend, Vicki, whispered loudly, “they’ve cleared that table now. Let’s grab it!”

“Sure!”

It was a bit awkward with my cane, so I decided to make two trips. First I carried my pie and coffee, then I planned to get my cane, bag and jacket. I was halfway to the table when—BAM! I ran smack into a bearded man! My coffee splashed out of my cup and into the air, on him, on me—wherever. My pie flew to the floor and he stepped right on it. Splat!

It took me one second to react. Hot coffee! Hot! Hot! Hot!

Not again! Didn’t even have my cane to show why this cotton-pickin’ disaster happened. There it lay folded up as nice as you please next to my bag…

I plucked my sparkling black t-shirt away from my belly to save my skin, and before I could sensor my language, a mild curse escaped my lips. Oh! Where did that come from?

The lights came on and the band stopped playing. I kid you not! Was this God's wrath come down upon me?!

That moment felt like forever. It reminded me of when a sudden intercom announces to its shoppers that a lost child is seeking a familiar family member... except I imagined that my single curse word ricocheted around the room and back again. This would be followed by an explanatory voice, 'Lady in black curses in church café. Will the responsible party please pick her up at the front of room.' At this point, my imagination went wild. Every face in the room would turn toward me, including the ten angelic acappella singers and band members, in mid-stance (I’d guess about seventy-five in all).

Aaaagghhhh! I sought for a life-sized cross to hide behind! My imagination alarms me at times.

"Are you okay?” I asked the bearded fellow anxiously. "Did I burn you?"

"Just fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. " Was that echo in my mind? Or was he really four times fine? "Coffee didn't even touch me."

He rubbed his beard, "Let me get you another coffee."

No. No, no, nO, NO coffee! I hate, abolutely HATE coffee! Never drink it! Look what it caused!

"Yes, please." I found myself saying.

"Creamer?"

"French vanilla," I replied.

I tried to scoop up the mashed pumpkin pie from the floor but someone took the plate from my hand, and sat me down.

Although my eyes never work at the right time, I did notice the bearded man wipe the remnants of pumpkin pie off the smooth black sole of his shoe.

He handed me the coffee. "Oh thank you." The bearded man went back to sit down in his seat.

Vicki jabbed me, "That could be your future partner. It happens all the time!"

I rolled my eyes at her. "Shhhh. Hey Vicki, did the band actually stop back then because of my accident?" I was desperate for reassurance.

"Oh no, not at all. That was the last song of the set." She sounded certain of her facts. I wanted to believe her.

The band started up again. "Oh, there's Steve La John. I think it is, anyway. I haven't seen him in years. But it looks like his picture on Facebook" I shielded my eyes to see better.

"Oh, let's go talk to him!"

"No, no, no, no." I sputtered, terrified of another collision, and bringing more notice (read SHAME) on myself. "I'm not sure if it's him, actually. It's been thirty years."

After the band finished for the night, Vicki took my arm, "C'mon, let's go talk to Steve."

It was him, after all. He stood up and smiled at us.

"You remember Amy, don't you? She was in your class in high school..."

"Oh Amy, is that you? I didn’t see you.”

"Yeah, I kinda blend in with the darkness in my clothes!" Great comeback! I applauded myself.

As Vicki and Steve chatted about a beach they had both visited in Florida, I thought about my situation.

Let’s go back to my hokey pokey analogy, “you-put-your-right-eye-in, and your right-eye-out, you do the hokey pokey and ya shake it all about. That’s what it’s ALL aBOUT!” If I were completely blind, people would know. If I had normal sight, this wouldn’t happen. But as it is, I have one eye in both worlds.

So what can I do? Well, God, help me to simply laugh. This is me, quirks and all. I wanna dance the hokey pokey, and shake it all about! I don't want life to pass me by. I remember something I learned last summer. People who can't see well (or at all) tend to forget that others CAN see them! Maybe that's a good thing, 'cause I don't think I'd be too graceful dancin' the hokey pokey!

Stranger in a Strange Land

I was lying down tonight trying to get rid of a persistent headache in the back of my head when my dog came into my bedroom. He came up to the bed and nudged me. I tried to ignore him. But then he did his usual--half bark, half gulping air. It makes a really comical sound. His meaning: get up. I'm bored! "Go away," I muttered, "I have a headache!" He continued to pester me until I got up and gave him some attention.

When I finally went back to take a nap, the image of someone else came to mind--an unlikely character in the parade of people I met during my hospital stay in Dubai. I never thought this woman would impact my life at all, but she did! God taught me how similar that women of different cultures are regardless of origin, language, position, education and background.

This is our story.

~ ~ ~ ~

I waited for doctors to sign my release papers from Dubai Hospital, recalling the sojourners God sent along my way—the image of an unlikely one popped to mind

I hadn’t liked her at all at first, especially not the way she mopped her way into my life. Mornings I wrote letters to keep my mind off the possibility I might lose the baby in the Problem Pregnancy Ward.

Bam! Bam! I looked at my watch. It’s her again.

“Do you have to wham my bed every day?”

Dark, square features turned away. Uh-oh. Too much English. Thick, pudgy, work-rough arms dragged the mop back and forth not caring that dust flew into the air and cascaded down around me like a sudden storm. As she swept, she nearly dislodged the books stacked next to my bed, and rammed the flower arrangement a recent visitor had brought.

“Careful!”

She stopped mid-motion to stare. Hard. Angry.

“Many stuffs!” she muttered. “Why this?”

She smacked her chewing gum, deliberately blew a bubble and popped it, half-heartedly swiping a damp cloth over my food tray leaving a trail of crumbs behind.

I sighed, irritated—but as usual she ignored me.

I wish I spoke Urdu; I could tell this Pakistani woman a thing or two.

The maid’s bright yellow bell-bottomed uniform strained under her weight as she bent over, showing her broad backside. I watched her slow movement. Sensing my eyes, her mouth formed a thin line. Then she straightened and smoothed her tight polyester tunic, shuffling past, uncoiling a cord as she prepared to buff scuff marks. She heaved the buffer back and forth in long angry movements.

Most morning I’d pantomime messages after she whacked my bed. Stop that! I need soap. Toilet paper. Empty my trash. One day she held up a small bar of soap before I asked. I grinned. I pointed at the paper towels. She tossed the roll to me, a smile perched on her face.

I started looking forward to my daily bed-bashing sessions.

I actually missed her when a month later I moved to post-natal care—after losing the baby. I felt sorry for myself. Here I am, a stranger in a strange land. No one around—Bam! Bam! I glared at her. She made a funny face at me.

Wait, what is she doing here? This isn’t her area to clean!

She spoke to me through our usual non-verbal gestures She pantomimed a pregnant lady. Rocked a baby. Pointed to me. Giggled. Spread her palms, questioning. Tilted her head, bottom lip protruding. Demanding.

I shook my head “No.” Rocked a baby. Stopped. Held out my empty hands. Covered my face. Slowly uncovered it, my eyes wet. Our eyes met. Locked. She understood. At last, she stopped chewing her gum. She didn’t ram my bed at all after that.

That day both Pakistani and American shared wordless grief over a baby—strangers in a strange land profoundly bound as women across cultures.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you God for this woman who understood my grief. Thank you for teaching me that caring is not dependent on a common language. Thank you, most of all, for reaching across social barriers to show me the value of this woman. In her world, she shuffles across the room with a lowly mop. In Your world, she pauses to lift the spirits of a lowly patient. We are the same in Your eyes. And now, Lord, in my eyes as well. Teach me always to look beyond the surface to the heart for commonalities.