Thirty years ago when I was in college at UCONN I had occasion to go through the tortuous registration for class procedure, held in the football team’s practice facility. As I was walking around with a registration pamphlet, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing, I saw a guy about my age sitting with his bare feet up on one of the registration tables. I recoiled, felt disgusted, and was about to make a sarcastic remark about manners. Then I noticed he had no arms. Not even stubs where they might have been amputated.
He never had arms; he was born that way. He was using his bare feet to turn the pages of one of the class directories. I watched him for a couple of seconds, noticing his remarkable facility in turning the pages with appendages most of us just plodded along with. And here he was at college, with this tremendous disability—and I was internally bitching about having to trudge through the tiresome registration process.
Suddenly I felt my face turn red with shame. And I have to admit, even though I was a 20-year-old “tough guy” (martial artist and workout fanatic), I felt weak. Tears came to my eyes (and they’re rolling down my cheeks as I write this) when I recognized this young man’s courage. Bravo! I thought.
In that instant in my mind’s eye I saw this young man’s life: the terrible pain of his parents as their son was born with this disability; the bullying he would have taken in school and the verbal insults that cut a child to the core; the inability to play most sports and be part of the group; and no senior prom. No senior prom.
I didn’t say anything to him, as I’m sure it would have come off as patronizing—and I’m sure he’d heard things like that all his life. I composed myself, and slowly walked in front of the table. I paused, glanced at him, and at the moment he looked up from the directory and our eyes locked. I just nodded. He smiled. He knew what I meant. Some things are just too profound for words.
Death is not the only reason to seek out the mustard seed.
