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After the Easter worship service today, the pastor invited people to pray at the altar, as usual. He invited anyone who had not accepted Jesus to come forward and pray. He asked those who had special needs to kneel at the altar. As we started to sing the last hymn, a small shy teenaged girl hobbled to the altar. Her legs are deformed and she is mentally challenged. (Is that the politically corret term now for mentally retarded or mentally handicapped? I think so.) Soon, her boyfriend joined her at the altar. And he held her hand as they prayed together and separately. The boy's mother was at the front of the church, with the choir, and I caught her eye and we exchanged knowing smiles. Hers is a boy who doctors proclaimed would never have abilities beyond a three-year-old. In some ways, they are correct. This lad seems to know which people strive to understand his sometimes hard to understand speech patterns. To some, his words probably sound like jibberish. But to those who love him, to those who care enough to look beyond his disabilities, this boy can communicate. Sometimes his communication is by no more than a touch, a hug, or a smile. But often he speaks and says some of the most profound things, words heard only by those whose hearts and minds are open to hearing them. People who never categorized him as someone who couldn't learn or participate in society. As the service ended, I quietly asked this teenaged challenged couple about their prayers at the altar. With smiles on their faces, they both told me that they had thanked God for sending His Son to die for even them. And they thanked God that Jesus lived with Him in Heaven and that they would one day too, with perfect bodies and minds. It was then that I shed some tears. It was then that I knew that I had experienced Easter. |