Читать книгу 95 Prostheses - Frank G. Honeycutt - Страница 18

Normally associated with divine revelation and manifestation, a quick dictionary check1 of the word epiphany also suggests: “a moment when you suddenly become conscious of something that is very important to you.” This season of the church year is filled with epiphanic stories involving learned men of science bearing gifts and following stars; a heavenly voice at a river; and encounters with long-dead heroes on a mountain peak. We’ll get to those, but first the story of an old and gifted friend who also reveals the meaning and theology of the Epiphany season.

*

I picked up the phone one autumn long ago, wet from the shower, and the operator’s voice sounded rightly suspicious, almost disbelieving. “I have a collect call for the Reverend Frank McIntosh from Alvin, Simon, or Theodore.”

I think it was the little word “or” that made me laugh the hardest that afternoon; a choice of chipmunks. Or maybe his playful insistence upon referring to me with the name of his hometown dentist, the “tosh” such a fun-sounding syllable. After my go-ahead to the stunned operator, he chortled with a wonderful South Carolina accent, “Do you know who this eees?”

Who else could it be? Just prior to entering seminary, I met Bobby at Camp Hope near Clemson on Lake Hartwell. He was a member of a cabin group of mentally challenged campers that summer known as “The Fried Pies.” Bobby’s personality includes what textbooks used to call “idiot savant.” He remembers all sorts of lists and numbers: radio call letters in every South Carolina town; names and situations of extended members of any family he’s ever come to know; and detailed information concerning obscure hobbies like sanitation and the accompanying machines required to keep towns tidy. As a boy, Bobby stood silently for hours on the corner near his house and learned the detailed intricacies of his town’s mechanized street sweeper.

Bobby still walks with a gait that appears agitated—hands open and parallel, chest-high and shaking in rapid movement; head bobbing up and down—but is mostly an aid in helping his intricate brain retrieve something witty or astonishingly obscure. I always recall portions of Psalm 139 when I’m around Bobby: “For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Bobby has felt his share of ridicule and stares. But in church every Sunday near his group home, he’s also reminded of his gifts. He helps the men of his congregation prepare breakfast before worship each week; the marvelous leveling effect of food.

I recall a time when I picked Bobby up from his residential facility and we drove to a nearby Hardee’s, placed our burger order, and settled into a booth. “Okay, Frank McIntosh, I have a question for you.” He let the statement hang in the air for several seconds. “Do you think . . . do you think I’m retarded?” I’m pretty certain I’ve never been asked a question to which I was so eager to reply “no,” but the contortions of his face suggested a recent history. I didn’t answer right away; I asked what he thought about the word and why others felt a need to use it to describe him.

What followed was a remarkable conversation about our friendship and our differences and his sometimes painful attempts to get other people to understand him. He talked about how it felt when people looked at him strangely when he was at the mall with his friends and why God had chosen to make him this way. And it was like time stood still during our conversation. The nervous shaking of his hands was gone. He looked hard into my eyes and did not turn away. “No, Bobby,” I said, using a word I’d come to despise. “I don’t think you’re retarded.”

A letter arrived just before the wise men made their annual journey one recent Epiphany. “This is your old friend, Bobby. Do you remember that time when you were naked as the baby Jesus outside the shower and received a phone call from the singing chipmunks?”

Almost forty years have passed since that call. And yes, Bobby, I do remember. And give God thanks for such an old and gifted friend, so wonderfully made.

1. Cambridge Dictionary (online).