Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Hebrews 12:12
A few days ago, as my family cruised along the interstate toward church, I happened to catch sight of my son, sitting just behind me, in his wheelchair, with his arm lifted skyward.
Gospel music – at his request – was playing on the radio and as he tried to sing along, he lifted his hand up, toward Heaven.
Tears filled my eyes behind my sunglasses. I could not help but be moved by the sight.
Inside the Baptist churches of my youth, few were the times I can remember anyone, young or old, lifting a hand toward heaven or cupping their hands before them, as if waiting to catch grace falling from above.
Swaying to the music just was not done, except for very special occasions. We wore our suit coats and our ties and our collars buttoned-down. Our sisters and our Moms wore their dresses and their blouses and their jackets buttoned up tight, as well. Most of the time, our hearts seemed to be that way, too: buttoned-up, tight, unmoved.
The songs we sang came right out of the hymnals; and only every so often did it seem as if the words we sang came from anywhere near our hearts. It was church and that was the way church and worship were done.
Bryson, thankfully, is growing up in a different kind of place. He has never worn a shirt and tie. He has never put on a suit. He wears mostly men’s exercise style warm-up pants, polo shirts or Henleys, and tennis shoes over his leg braces. He has rarely held a hymnal, in part, because of his uncooperative, permanently bent left arm and hand.
Music, however, is a source of great joy with him. He takes to music of all kinds, particularly country and gospel. Country usually carries the day. Gospel reigns on Sundays and at other times when – I can only assume — he hears a different call inside his head or his heart.
Some Sundays in church, he wants to sit where he can hear the music of worship and see the praise team and the band on the stage, leading our congregation through songs of praise, of hope, of worship. Inside the sanctuary, he has rolled his wheelchair out into the aisle and a little closer to the stage, to improve his view.
Often, at some point, he lifts a hand skyward. He seems to understand – better than many adults I know – we are meant to reach for Heaven.
No matter how distant or how far it may seem, no matter how estranged we may be from our God and our notion of hope, no matter what may be pressing down upon us day in, day out, Bryson seems to realize an arm lifted to Heaven is so much more than a hand sticking up in the air.
It is an expression of the music within his heart, the melody and the hope that make his spirit dance. It is an outward expression of his desire – to connect with a God and a Savior he only now – at 13 – is just beginning to understand. It is his way of saying, “Here, Lord. Here I am. I want in. I want you. I lift my hand – and this broken, bent, imperfect body of mine – to you. Take it. Take me, Lord; take me with all my hurts, all my flaws, all my imperfections, with all my hope.”
In our quiet moments alone, sometimes when he wakes and needs help in the still of night or when he seems to need a victory or reassurance or the reminder that he is a special kid, I whisper to him: “Bryson, you are my hero.”
The truth is, I call him hero because he refuses to let his challenges and his handicaps keep him from enjoying life. He refuses to let his wheelchair dim the light of his heart. He refuses to give up the fight for hope.
And because, every once in a while, when I happen to look up and take notice, I see him, arm raised above his head and his wheelchair, pointing me toward Heaven.
