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The Baptist church
was just a mile from the submarine base where my husband was
stationed. That's where I first saw the interpreter,
standing pretty in a dark blue blouse adorned with a single
strand of white pearls. When the service began so did she,
signing everything to a couple sitting attentively in the
front row. I watched, fascinated, as her hands wrapped
themselves around the preacher's every word. Later, when I
heard there would be a sign language class starting for
those wishing to learn "the wonderful language of the
Deaf," I didn't hesitate to sign up. It was a chance to
finally learn to sign, not to mention an escape from an
empty house while my husband was out at sea.
Heaven. As it turned out, the interpreter,
Maggie, was also the instructor. One day she'd asked me if I
could stay after class.
"Next week
I'd like you to sign the closing hymn," she said.
"It's called Just as I Am. Here's the
translation."
"Oh,
okay," I said, staring at the sheet of paper.
Capitalized words representing signs ran below each row of
lyrics. "But…I don't think I know all these
signs."
"They're in
your textbook," Maggie said. "You'll be fine. I
know you can do it-and it would really help me out."
My desire to
please my mentor won out over my fear, but just barely.
"Do you really think I can?"
"I really
do." Maggie waited for my answer.
"Okay. But
can I borrow your pearls?"
"Next
week" had arrived in record time. At Maggie's direction
I sat up front, mentally practicing the hymn's signs as I
watched Pastor John ready himself at the podium. Seeing him
coaxed a smile despite my nervousness. The good preacher was
undoubtedly the most Southern part of this Southern Baptist
church, his honey-smooth accent claiming kinship to regions
down south. His tall frame was stooped from many years of
laying a consoling hand on weary shoulders, but my favorite
feature was a thatch of silver hair that would break ranks
and fall across his forehead during particularly strenuous
moments of a sermon.
The preacher's
performance was at record speed this morning; before I knew
it he was closing down his message. Maggie gave me a wink-my
cue to change places with her-and like two palace guards we
completed the maneuver. A quick wave goodbye and she was
gone.
The congregation
began to sing. "Just as I am, without one plea…"
Practiced and lotioned, my hands smoothly performed the
memorized signs. "Just as I am, and waiting not…"
This was going well. The rhythm was a slow, respectful
cadence, giving me plenty of time. A sense of cockiness set
in, causing me to add a slight body sway in sync with the
music.
"…to rid
my soul of one dark blot…" they sang. "REMOVE
SIN FROM MY SOUL," I signed, swerving to the right,
then the left.
Suddenly Pastor
John's booming voice broke in. "My friends … ah feel
there are some folks here today who really need to hear that
message. That you can come to God at any time-anywhere. And
he'll love you just as you are."
I froze. Maggie
hadn't warned me of any between-verse commentary. Forcing my
hands to move again I tried to keep up but only succeeded in
catching every fourth or fifth word in a sentence. I managed
to sign FRIEND and a few other terms frantically remembered
from Maggie's class but was still hopelessly behind, feeling
lost in a maze of words that knotted my hands like a
pretzel. The pastor continued on, relentlessly bringing his
point home.
"That's
right," he assured, "God loves you."
Ah ha!-I knew
that sentence! "GOD LOVES YOU," I signed.
"God loves
you, no matter what your situation…"
"GOD LOVES
YOU," I signed again.
"…no
matter what you've done..."
"GOD LOVES
YOU," I repeated.
And so it went.
For a few more
moments that seemed like years, Pastor John preached his
impromptu sermon, rich with terms of benevolence and peace,
love and hope. And all the time I kept signing, "God
loves you," praying that no one would notice I was
caught in a loop.
Finally,
thankfully, the kind minister cued the chorus to begin the
hymn again. My hands returned to known territory, forming
the practiced signs with steady trepidation instead of the
showy flamboyance I was exhibiting before.
Afterwards,
Pastor John stationed himself at the door, treating each
departing soul to a loving handclasp and the promise that
God be with them. I joined the reception line, slowly making
my way toward the good pastor and the only way out. Finally
I stood before him. John folded my hands into the warmth of
his.
"Thank you
so much for signin' today. Ah really a'preciate it."
His bright blue eyes regarded me kindly but I had to look
away.
"Oh, I
don't know about that," I mumbled. "I mean…I had
the song memorized but…" I cautiously met his gaze.
"You see," I confessed, "when you spoke to
the congregation… you know, between verses?"
"Yes?"
"Well…I
don't know enough signs yet. I'm afraid all I could manage
was 'God loves you,' … about ten times in a row."
I was afraid of
disappointing him, this noble spokesman for God who stood at
the helm of this church, guarding all the good it had
brought me and so many others.
"Oh, that's
all right," he said, patting my hands still held in
his. "That's all ah was really tryin' to say."
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