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Pancakes
Six year old Brandon decided one Saturday morning to fix his parents pancakes.
He found a big bowl and spoon, pulled a chair to the counter, opened the
cupboard and pulled out the heavy flour cannister, spilling it on the floor. He
scooped some of the flour into the bowl with his hands, mixed in most of a cup
of milk and added some sugar, leaving a floury trail on the floor which by now
had a few tracks left by his kitten. Brandon was covered with flour and getting
frustrated.
He wanted this to be something very good for Mom and Dad, but it was getting
very bad. He didn’t know what to do next, whether to put it all into the oven
or on the stove, (and he didn’t know how the stove worked!). Suddenly he saw his
kitten licking from the bowl of mix and reached to push her away, knocking the
egg carton to the floor. Frantically he tried to clean up this monumental mess
but slipped on the eggs, getting his pajamas white and sticky.
And just then he saw Dad standing at the door. Big crocodile tears welled up in
Brandon’s eyes. All he’d wanted to do was something good, but he’d made a
terrible mess. He was sure a scolding was coming, maybe even a spanking. But his
father just watched him. Then, walking through the mess, he picked up his crying
son, hugged him and loved him, getting his own pajamas white and sticky in the
process.
That’s how God deals with us. We try to do something good in life, but it turns
into a mess. Our marriage gets all sticky or we insult a friend or we can’t
stand our job or our health goes sour. Sometimes we just stand there in tears
because we can’t think of anything else to do. That’s when God picks us up and
loves us and forgives us, even though some of our mess gets all over Him. But
just because we might mess up, we can’t stop trying to “make pancakes,” for God
or for others. Sooner or later we’ll get it right, and then they’ll be glad we
tried…
Matthew Sails
About 10 years ago I taught a group of children to sail. They were bright, enthusiastic and as keen to enjoy life as any other child. All however, had a serious disability. Three were in wheelchairs, paralyzed from the waist down. One was nearly blind and had a deformity of his right arm. Two were able to walk with difficulty, afflicted with Cerebral palsy. The seventh little boy I will never forget. I will call him Matthew. He too had cerebral palsy and was very badly afflicted. His hands and arms were both deformed from the disease and inactivity. His back was bent. His face was distorted and his legs did not work. Even his laughter was a tinkling cough, which racked his body. To speak, Matthew had the help of a letter board. Slowly, and with deliberate determination, he would point out with distorted hands, letter by letter, what he wanted to say. Sometimes he would try to talk. His voice was so distorted that even his constant caretaker could not understand most of his whispered growl. Yet he was always bright and cheerful and loved to try everything his classmates were doing, both in the boat and in the classroom.
I loved my time with them; they were always so cheerful and full of life. They learnt fast and most of all enjoyed every minute of the classes. But despite all that I was the one who learned the greatest lesson. One day the sailing centre was assailed by a storm. The wind howled and the rain came down in torrents. Rather than cancel the session we decided to work in a classroom. All the children joined in. Just like other children they all wanted to answer the questions I asked. It was important to get them all involved. I would ask questions of the quieter children to draw them out too.
Often they would loudly interrupt each other, trying to get an answer in before one of the others. But when Matthew wanted to answer a question it was different. All of a sudden they all quieted. Matthew whispered and gesticulated at his board. They waited. Matthew struggled with dogged persistence until the answer was spelled out. Then, if I did not understand, one of the other children would work with him until the answer was clear. When Matthew had answered his question the children were, almost magically, transformed back into a rabble of noisy and enthusiastic children.
All of these children were heroes in their own way. But the tolerance they afforded to Matthew with his most severe disabilities was inspirational. At just fourteen years old, these disabled children had learned to afford care, respect and help to someone less fortunate than themselves. If only the rest of the world were able to learn the same lessons. Bigotry, violence and intolerance would be gone.
by Damon Guy
High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, England
God Lives Under the Bed
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 that he is different.
Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, ff
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 variations 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 going 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, of 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 that 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 that 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.