My brother Kevin thinks God lives
under his bed. At least that's what I overheard him say
one night. He was praying in his darkened bedroom and I
stopped outside his door to listen.
"Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are
You?" A pause-and then, in a relieved voice, "Oh,
I see. Under the bed."
I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room.
Kevin's unique perspectives are always 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 labor difficulties during birth. Apart from his size (he's
6'2"), there are few ways that he is an adult. He
reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a seven-year
old.
He probably will always believe that God lives under his
bed, that Santa Claus fills the space under our tree
every Christmas, and that airplanes stay in the sky
because angels carry them.
I remember wondering if Kevin was ever dissatisfied with
his monotonous life. Up before dawn each day, off to work
at a workshop for the disabled, home to eat his favorite
macaroni and cheese for dinner, and later to bed. The
only change in this routine is laundry day, when he
hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother
with a newborn child.
But he does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the
school bus every morning at 7.05am, eager for a day of
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
chores.
And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays! 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.
"That one's going to Chi-cargo!" he'll shout
and clap his hands. He can hardly sleep on Friday nights
in anticipation.
I do not think Kevin knows what it means to be discontent.
He will never know the entanglements of wealth or power,
and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or
what kind of food he eats. He recognizes no difference in
people, treating all as equals and as friends. 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, and he does not quit 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 too. He believes everyone tells the truth,
that promises must be kept, and that when you are wrong,
you apologize. Free from pride and unconcerned with
appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry. He is always
sincere.
And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual
reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he always comes as a
child.
In my moments of doubt and frustration, I envy the
security of his simple faith. Yet, it is then I realize
and am humbled that perhaps he is not the one with the
handicap.
My obligations, my fears, my pride, my circumstances all
become disabilities when I do not give them away to Jesus.
Maybe Kevin can comprehend things I may never learn. He
has spent his whole life in innocence, after all, talking
to God, who lives under his bed, and soaking up the
goodness and love of the Lord.
One day, when the mysteries of Heaven are opened, we will
all be amazed at how close God really is to our hearts.
