Vitamin Help

I don't even know the man's name. His voice, though, wafts over the harsh sounds of my week and soothes them all into silence. He sings after church every Sunday, cradling his guitar and strumming melodies he has no doubt composed. His voice ushers us out, but each week I find myself wanting to linger. Such a sweet voice - such lilting notes - work like a quieting balm to my soul, and I believe other worshippers agree. The church empties slowly: Until the final notes of his song die away and we hear his characteristic, "Have a good week," we all move in slow motion. Only after we're released from his spell do we pack up our Bibles and coats with more gusto. Only then do we step out of doors and back into our lives, our hearts full of the blessing of this one man's gift.

He is a tall man, this singer. His arms are thick and muscular, his skin a deep chocolate brown. He plays his piece and backs down, not seeking the spotlight for himself.

But this Sunday, he entered the spotlight without realizing it.

"Let's pray," the pastor invited from the podium. I bowed my as usual, but something kept my eyes from closing. And there, to the right of the pastor, I saw a small miracle take place.

A team of three men, each moving as silently as a cat in the darkness, rose from their seats and moved forward. One was pushing a wheelchair - the wheelchair that carries the closing-song singer through life. Carefully, noiselessly, the first man wheeled him up to the edge of the stage.

I looked around for a ramp, but there was none. Effortlessly, the musician maneuvered his chair around backwards and held still while the first two men lifted him to the stage. Then, while he wheeled himself toward his microphone (which one man deftly lowered to his height), the third support man reached for his guitar. Noiselessly he helped the man place it comfortably ... and all was ready for action. The three helpers retreated to their seats on soft feet, and before the pastor had reached his amen, the musician sat onstage, sans his helpers. The gentle notes of his song filled the room, a quiet introduction to our worship before leaving. His voice raised in song- that soft, grace-filled voice - and carried with it an invitation for us sing, too.

We all complied - the pastor, the congregation, the ushers. I'm sure his three helpers sang, too. But what I noticed - what caught me more than all this - was the transaction I had just witnessed. With grace, this man's helpers had assisted him. With dignity, he'd accepted their aid. The whole saga (repeated time and again every Sunday) had looked to me to like a perfectly constructed toy: Like the game made of gears that my sons are just now growing into. Each gear turns, and its motion affects the gear next to it. Together, the whole jumble of gears creates an intricate, working machine. Something of beauty, greater than the sum of its parts. Something akin to a miracle.

"Have a nice week." The singer's closing words stopped my thougths. I bowed my head then, not in deference to him but in gratitude to the God who places within us the ability to help - to be helped - with such respect and such love. This was my sermon today. This is what will remain. Long after I've learned the name of this man - long after this pastor, this building, this world - turn to sand - the acts of this morning will stand.

And now these three remain: Faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Happy Mother's Day, all. To those who bear the title of mother, and through their efforts create miracles just like this every day ... and to those who aren't mothers but who live out this same God-pleasing love ... I salute you. May your life, and this day, radiate outward from the care that you take to serve others. Thanks to God, you're creating a great thing of beauty - and that inspires me to say thank you.

So thank you ... and have a nice week.