On heavenly gazes and wisdom

I have a friend that has a decidedly childlike twinkle in his eye (even though he is in his sixties) and a deeply committed, dry sense of humor.  Because of his multiple sclerosis, he’s also in a wheelchair.  And so it was only a few months ago that it occurred to his friends and family that while everyone else at church had probably gotten to hold Lucia, he hadn’t.

When we placed her into his arms, she settled into his lap and nestled onto his chest and began to make great Herculean gestures to crane her neck to see this new person who was holding her.

That’s how you know Lucia likes you.  That’s how you know she’s interested. And then, she began to gaze up at him adoringly, an intensity of steadfast looking upon that exudes an otherworldly contentment (and that she doesn’t do for just anybody either).

A few weeks later, my friend came to me and talked about that heavenly gaze.  “For just a moment, I would really love to see what she sees,” he mused.

And his words touched me deeply.

You see, given Lucia’s vision challenges, we can’t be certain that she often sees much of anything.  And given her cognitive differences, there’s all sorts of reasons to believe she experiences the world in a limited capacity.  But those are just doctors’ and experts,’ and perhaps even cynics’ hunches.

None of us has ever seen or experienced the world through her eyes.

And here was someone who recognized (perhaps because of his own experience with disability) that able-bodied, neuro-typical people may see and experience the world in one way, but that’s just one way of seeing things.  Here was someone who looked on Lucia and didn’t find her deficient or lacking or wounded but a person of great depth, worthy of interest, and even admiration.

My friend’s words touched me deeply, and something leapt inside of me, because someone seemed to be really seeing Lucia for Lucia!  While we go about our busy days, Lucia finds great contentment in being still and listening.  While we go through days and weeks without touching or holding one another, Lucia finds her greatest comfort and joy in being close.  While we bury our heads in our desks and flitter away our hours with meetings, Lucia has finally mastered looking at people she knows, making small noises, and generously allowing us to brush her teeth.

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One of Lucia’s heavenly gazes.  My photo.

This past weekend when we talked together at church about wisdom, I was rather at a loss.  Wisdom is such a slippery thing to pin down.

What can you say about wisdom that rings true?

But we generally agreed that wisdom doesn’t come from us, it comes from God.  It doesn’t come from our trying and working and hustling and struggling and toiling but seeps into our souls, patiently waiting for us to pay attention to what whispers rather than what is clamoring for our attention.

And so I think about my friend’s words, his desire to know more about what Lucia sees, his childlike heart and humor, and I think how paradoxical and playful wisdom also is.  Wisdom comes to us in the ways of a child, mocking our pursuits, beckoning us to simpler, truer ways.

And it dawned on me: however mysterious and unknown and beyond us, Lucia’s ways are decidedly true.  Lucia’s time is time well spent.  When we try to capture Lucia in diagnoses or deficiencies or developmental charts, the efforts are colossal failures, crude renderings of a life well-lived.

But in gazes and touches and whispers?  Well, I’m with my friend, I want to know more of those.

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