Riding the lifebus is never less than a surprise, from mundane to spectacular and back again. The wheels on the bus go round and round. And it’s not all good even if you’re still on the right side of the grass.
The trick is to go with the flow, even if that’s a flooding river. I’m not good at tricks. I’ve lived a life of faking it. That has served me well most of the time, hiding the inner quivering me, a mouse facing a good number of giants. You’d think by this venerable age I’d have learned survival tactics. My problem is that they don’t stay learned.
A member of my choir family across thirty five or so years has a debilitating muscular disease. I’ve seen him sing standing for some of those years, but for many more, he’s wheel chair bound, his voice coming from somewhere just above my elbow. I stand next to him in the front row, leaning on his wheel chair, holding up my bad back which goes into spasm after five minutes of standing. His wry sense of humor often tilts his grin up to mine as we chuckle over some funny thing we saw or heard together. He can be a bit of a scamp.
He fell in his driveway yesterday and broke his tibia. Don’t even ask. I thought someone got it wrong. Someone got it right. So two weeks to repair and rehab and crossed fingers and prayers and more rehab might get him back to his chair, giving him mobility. Wheels.
His several names are Bob, Robert, Hutch and he answers to all of them. He’s been a presence among us since the beginning, a thoughtful observer, a discerning man whose impediment keeps him in, not out, keeping up long after some of us tire. He’s not a kid anymore. Looking around, the visual says that neither are we. He is a living example of tenacity, courage and faith. When he writes, and he writes very well, I find him in my email queue and read him first. He speaks on the page with clarity and wisdom, honoring the Word of the God he serves.
I’m so grateful that his tibia is all that was broken. Not his head. Not his spirit. A tibia. Fixable.
We are a spirit filled choir of mostly ordinary voices. We are committed to our purpose: to be God’s instrument wherever He leads us. A motley, aging group, a collection of the mixture that makes us human. Above all that, we are a family in Christ, Christ-filled and Christ-driven. It’s not about the singing, though that is the vehicle. It’s about the song. Sure, getting the notes right, delivering the meaning of the words, those things matter. They are the wheels on the bus. What’s inside the bus is about witnessing to the everyday that God gives us. Thirty five years of honing that skill is who we really are in Him. BLESSING!