Perhaps in my trek over years and land to the me I am now, I forgot those past atrocities, the darker portion of my self, a shadow history I'd rather not mention to anyone; not even to myself.
I read a story called, "The Decapitated Chicken" during my lunch hour today. The story is not a lighthearted tale. Whatever else the story was, though, is somewhat irrelevant for now; sometimes in our wanderings we stumble across something of a secret hatch in our minds to which a story or an experience, or even a person's voice is the key; suddenly, without warning, the door is opened to a memory forgotten, and a flood of recognition as well as some new sentiment about the happening, comes flooding into sight. Today as I read Horacio Quiroga's tale of four mentally disabled boys, I remembered a boy with a mental disability and speech impediment named Stephen.
Kileleshwa Stephen is all I can call him now. I cannot recall his surname. I hope someone claimed him. Such a happy soul, such a tenacious spirit.
We made fun of Stephen. We teased him at church. Behind his back, in his face -- it doesn't matter. That haunted me all of lunch time today and even has me crying now. It was the one place, you see, the one place he should have been assured love: God's house. Yet we children at times spurned him when he just wanted a companion to talk or play with.
So this is a confession, Stephen. Honestly I've no idea where you are right now, though I'd give much to know, and even more to meet you now and tell you you deserve so much more, you are so much more. In fact, strip away the humanity, the fallen shell, and perhaps you could fly -- an angel, a spirit of God even. We treated you like a lowly one, but I'm guessing underneath it all, my brother, you flew and still fly higher than any of us could ever dream of doing.
God bless you Stephen.
Always living by the Grace that made you smile,