When I went into hibernation, I wasn't planning on ever coming out. I knew death was coming, and I was ok with it. I knew death was nearby because he'd been taking out my support staff one by one for a while. When it came to be my turn, I figured I wouldn't put up a fight. How bad could it be? I would know and love so many people already on the other side.
Only, it didn't work out that way. When death came for me, I looked him in the eye and said, "Not today, friend. Not today."
All those years in the cave took nearly all the strength I'd been known for. No more could I move truckloads of iron in the gym. I could barely lift a glass of milk to my lips, but it was a start. God's hand reached down to me, and just like the blind and bald Samson, my strength started returning. Slowly, at first, but building momentum. He was pushing me.
From the beginning, I began noticing strange coincidences. Jobs requiring skills I had began appearing just as I was getting strong enough to do them again. It happened often enough that it started freaking me out a little bit. Maybe coming back to life wasn't my choice at all. Maybe there were other forces at work here.
I started going back to Sunday School at Galloway. I hadn't been to Sunday School since Bert Felder first started his ministry there. I thought it'd take me a while to figure out which way to go, but right off the bat, Sue Whitt reached out to me and told me where to go. Sue's been telling me where to go, in one way or another, since I was nineteen. She's always been right so far. So, now I have a Sunday School.
At Sunday School, someone mentioned that some money was being raised for the Drama Ministry at Galloway. Drama Ministry at Galloway used to be a really active thing. The family life center has a really nice theater in it. One of the last productions I was ever involved with anywhere before sealing up the door to my cave was "Harvey" at Galloway, which I got involved with because Brent couldn't.
What are the odds that Galloway would need people with theater skills just at the same moment that I was returning to the church family? That's not a natural progression. If I do this (and I am going to do this), it will make me sad to do it without Rick Bradley, but maybe it'd make him happy to know I was there when he couldn't. I'm probably going to try and rope Brent into it as well. Theater ministry has been a part of his life his whole life, and there are people there who already love him. He's not really satisfied doing theater when he can't stand on a ladder, but that's ok. There are other jobs. He can sit in a rocking chair like Lance. Boy, I miss Lance. Y'all don't know. Well, maybe some do. Maybe Sam will want to be a part too. I don't know if he has a church family here yet or not.
One of the reasons Dr. Whitt recommended this class for me was that it was run by Tom Harmon. Tom is deeply involved with Art For All Mississippi. Artforallms.com exists so that developmentally challenged artists can grow their skills and discover new ones and find fellow travelers in their journey. Until I started making my writing available online, even my oldest friends didn't know I was developmentally disabled, and even my oldest friends had forgotten that I was ever an artist. Now that art is part of my life again, thanks to people like Hope Carr, Will Primos, and others, I'm kind of duty-bound to investigate this organization and see if there's a place where my hands should take hold and help pull. I am, very much, a developmentally disabled artist in so many ways.
"Arbeit macht frei" appears at the entrance to probably the most evil place man ever created. They were evil, but they weren't wrong. Work WILL set me Free. I need work. I need to serve. I need to expend effort on something, on some people, other than myself, if I'm going to live again, and I very much want to live again. With every step I take, God lays out more of the path before me. I could close my eyes and still find the way, but I won't. I want to see it all. I'm back at work, y'all. Life is good.
No comments:
Post a Comment