May I be of Service?

I'm gripping the metal bar as I kneel and hold the ramp firmly to the floor. Beside my head a sixteen pound ball is rocking in unsteady hands. I am serving this person, these people, helping them find a moment of joy, making them feel good about who they are, what they can do. I am at their service.

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Today is Sunday. I overslept and had to rush my children through breakfast, rush to pick up my mother in law... ex mother in law... and rush to church. The youth pastor was giving the message today, the first in a sermon series, while my pastor, my friend, is on an out of town trip.

I overslept!

I only got up once last night. Sometime around 3:00 a.m. I checked my email. I went back to bed. I went back to sleep! And, all told, I think I slept about a seven hours and fifteen minutes. The most I have slept in more than a year and a half.

I woke, feeling... rested. Oh... what a wonderful feeling. I made coffee while I hollered at the boys to hurry, and inside I felt like I am going to be OK.

I don’t know how I became such a sensitive soul. (By the way... do you know the difference between your soul and your spirit... it’s worth pondering!)

I am the only man in my family with this particular bent. I don’t regret it. I am sometimes embarrassed, to be seen as such a softy, but I know it to be who I am, and I feel good in allowing myself to relax into this part of who I am.

I want to be gentle. (I serve a gentle master.)

Most creatures do not seek gentleness. Beside me, here at my desk, the dominant yellow-white angel fish and the dominant black-white angel fish continue their feud. For four years they have protected their respective halves of the 50 gallon tank and stage their border skirmishes beside the ceramic castle I made. They each have admiring mates to preen for. The mischievous red tail shark honors no borders and slips throughout the tank, teasing both sides.


I recognize that this ongoing stressor in their tiny lives keeps them healthy, active, free from boredom in their small world.

The stressors of my own life have helped me grow in ways which surprise me. I feel one of those areas of growth when I am kneeling before the Special Olympics athletes I serve on Saturdays.

I coach Special Olympics bowling.

My team is four individuals, each very different from the other, each with unique ways of wanting to do things, each needing something a little different from me. They are probably the most needy of all the athletes there. None of them speak.

I love them.

Three of them use ramps. The ramps are made of welded metal tubing. I ask each athlete as they come up, shuffling, or staggering, and rushing for no more reason than the joy of finding it is their turn once again. I ask, or gesture, are they satisfied with the way the ramp is set? For two of them I give them the 16 pound ball I selected and tested for balance, and let them place it on the flat space at the top of the ramp.

I’m not supposed to face the pins when they bowl. That is their moment. I encourage them to push the ball hard and fast, while I drop to one knee and pull my elbow in so it won’t interfere when they push the ball to the top of the slope where the ball rushes down and drops loudly onto the wood of the lane.

I hold the side of the ramp firmly so it won’t shift. It tries to jump twice. First when the ball begins to descend, and again when it falls the final inch from the rails to the floor.

I chose a heavy ball because if the athlete pushes the ball too lightly, it will still have enough inertia to knock the pins down.

One of the athletes, a woman with cerebral palsy, wants to do as much for herself as possible. She doesn’t want me to touch the ramp, she wants to carry the ball to the ramp.

On her fourth frame she grasped the ball from my hands, pulled it tight to her chest and teetered toward the ramp. I try to keep my hands about a foot to each side of her so she is on her own, but I can react quickly if she stumbles. She fell over, backwards and to the side, too quickly for me to catch her.

It was too quick for me to catch her, but I managed to scoop the heavy ball away from her as she tumbled so it wouldn’t land atop her. The ball landed with a loud bang as her hat tumbled off and a look of shock spread over her face.

She was upset for a while after that. Between moments of glee at taking her turn on the lane, she would point to her hand, and her elbow, and grunt sadly.

“I know, it hurts. It will get better. You are doing very well though. I’m proud of you.”

She would shout inaudibly and stagger to her place at the ramp where I would once again suggest moving the ramp one way or another, and when she was satisfied, hand her the heavy ball.

As I knelt before her each time I thought about her joy in being there, at knocking a few pins down. I thought about how kneeling has been a sign of putting one at someone else’s service.

After her fall I made sure she was distracted until she was close to the ramp. She did not try to take the ball from me until she was ready at the ramp.

Each time I knelt to hold that ramp steady I found a certain pleasure in serving.

From time to time I have written of how Jesus knelt to wash the feet of His disciples. That act of humility by God incarnate, done before His creation placed rough hands on Him, dragged Him off to be judged by men out of their depth, tortured by men who found joy in their inhumane craft, murdered by creatures He formed.

From time to time I have written of how God serves us. How the universe is held together by forces we barely imagine, held together in a fashion which permits us the freedom to love or hate.

I’m feeling better. I had a lot of sleep last night. Over seven hours.

I’m saddened over some things. I’m confused by others.

But when my heart is understanding what it means to serve, when it understands my place of privilege, of loving, of being gentle, then I feel whole, complete.

For most of my life I didn’t understand that.

In our culture to serve means to be beneath someone else, to be less than someone else. When we go to a restaurant or are waited on in a store, we expect service which makes us feel important, makes us feel in charge.

Each Sunday I go to a church service. A church service. Who is being served? It may feel like we are being served. That we are being fed, being taught, being given a sense of community and family.

But when I go to church, and I worship with a humbled heart, knowing I am a created thing, and that I am in service to Him, I feel more than good. I feel like I am living a life filled with nights of eight hours’ sleep.

I am no longer married. When I think of her, my mind, my heart, still calls her my wife... though it is no longer true.

She is gone. She walks a path different than mine.

She has failed me. I have failed her.

I failed to serve her properly. She fell. She was hurt. Her joy turned toward her hurts. I failed to serve her.

I serve my students. They see me as Authority. I give the grades. I give the praise. I give the discipline.

My students are wrong. I am not their master. I am their servant.

Each day they come into my classroom and sit in their places, and I present my service to them.

My place is to provide coaching for skills they need, to think more clearly, to develop healthy habits, how to be good students, how to be good citizens, good people.

It is my place to serve my students.

It is my place to serve my employer, the school district.

It is my place to serve my community, to educate the children of my neighbors.

It is my place to serve my society, my world, our future.

And...

I have been given the privilege to serve a God who serves all Creation... In doing so I am fulfilling and fulfilled.