But then, there was Jim. I held her brother as an annoyance from the time we were kids. He was someone I only barely acknowledged through high school. I discounted his presence when I was in my twenties, too caught in my own self-importance to notice. Jeanette spoke of his brilliance from time to time. I would stop and listen. Amazed. Not knowing the being of whom she spoke, nor the ilk of person she so adored. The quality of being she held before me in her words was alien to me – Jim. Someone I tolerated. Legally blind. A cruel joke, really, aiding in my non-understanding and non-compassion for him. Jeanette loved him dearly, unselfishly. She defended him against ridicule of every kind. I grew silent in my lack of understanding, in case I should offend her. The blind – I understood. This man, older than us by a couple of years, was a mystery to me, and I didn’t want to be bothered. I saw him as strangely aloof and oddly social. But in contrast to his apparent lack of social graces, whatever he touched succeeded immeasurably. He began painting when we were all in our twenties. At first, I thought, "What a great past time for him…a good way for him to express himself. Poor thing." To my amazement, medical doctors in our town stood in line, at first, to have his work represented in their plush offices. Next, they competed to purchase them! Next thing I knew, he was selling his paintings, worth thousands of dollars. His classical piano, I could understand. He didn’t need eyes for music, I thought. No wonder that he was a marvel at that particular expression. But painting! How could he see the ocean in order to capture the exquisite seascapes and sky? Looking at his work brought me chills. Clearly, something (Someone) was speaking to, and perhaps through him.

Tonight I listened intently as Jeanette shared of her prize: Her relationship with her dear brother (my dear teacher). Facial cancer. Class 3. She described the meeting with Jim’s doctor, a woman, herself deeply stricken with grief with the task of delivering the message to one so young and so faithful. The doctor spoke her sorrow and her regret. She didn’t mince words as she delivered the sentence: Six months. Jim, my sweet teacher spoke, "If God wants to call me home now, I am happy to go. He is my Father."

Jeanette prayed. Jim’s congregation, of which he was a central and committed part, performed an act quite apart from their regular service: A laying on of hands with an earnest request of our Father to allow Jim more time with them.

That occurred years ago. I didn’t know then. As Jeanette shared this with me tonight, I recalled Christmas, just last month. It was a cold, crisp night. We had just finished our shopping, and stopped by a congregation in a tiny California town. And then there was Jim. I smile as I remember observing that smile beaming even while he sang. How wonderful he looked, with his blond/white hair reflecting the lights around him, his shining face, the black and white suit with his bright Christmas tie. I didn’t know then. I know now -- a true miracle speaks so clearly to me of the offering God makes to us. I thank God for Jim.

© Glenna Heller

January 19, 2000