Mobility Madness

Post Title:  Mobility Madness.

“Ugh!” These side effects announced on health commercials sounded almost worse than the need for the medicine itself. Both my brother and I turned away from the TV screen and waited for the movie to come back on. I broached the subject. “Do you feel up to going to church tomorrow?”

“We can if I get a good night’s sleep.”

He had not been feeling well for the past few weeks. His sleep was off, and he had his days and nights turned around. Nothing too concerning but now that my mom was gone, I took over her role of “mother hen.”

“Okay, great!”

The next morning, I bustled around the apartment to do my chores—the dishes, making the bed, feeding the kittens, tidying papers up and eating my own breakfast.

I called downstairs once. “You up?”

“Just going to get some coffee,” Mike shouted, shrugging into a winter coat.

We had an electric coffeepot but even after being shown a couple of times how to use it, we reverted back to Mike buying coffee at the corner convenience store. It didn’t cost much.

Lifting my talking watch up to my ear, I pressed the tiny knob with my other hand. “A quarter past eight am” intoned an electronic voice. About an hour and a half before we had to leave.

I peered into the closet to choose my clothing. Always too dark. I chose what I hoped was a pair of brown dress pants, and felt for the knit sweater I always wore with it, then slid it off the hanger. I rummaged in the dim light for my turtle neck blouse and a dark pair of socks. Why did I bother coordinating my legwear? With suede boots covering them, no one would see the color.

When I bent over to change out of my pajamas when Rusty, my feisty big-tailed cat, attacked me. Startled, I gently knocked him down. “What in the world?” I followed the tie he still stubbornly held onto in his mouth. The drawstring on my pajama hoody.

Oh, you cat!

The garage door slowly rolled up, sounding as old and cranky as my grandpa getting in gear for the day after his stroke.

Really have to fix that. 

I grabbed my white cane by the elastic off its hook before zipping up my coat.

“Don’t slam the car do—”

“Oops.” I opened the passenger door again, took my coat out from where it caught, and gently closed it again. “Ready.”

When we arrived, I gathered the handle of my cloth Bible covering, a pad of paper, my purse and my white cane. “See ya’ inside.”

My brother had left me at the car drop off, so I only had a few steps to take before reaching the door.

But I couldn’t find it.

I saw John, who greeted visitor’s that day, wave. “Hi Amy, the door is open. I’m holding it for you.”

Ah, that explained why I couldn’t see it. He reached out and helped me over the cement step and into the church. Then he handed me a bulletin.

“Thanks, John. Brrrr.” The January cold settled into my bones.

I swept forward with my cane, careful to keep it closer to my body than normal so I didn’t trip any of the elderly church-goers. Senior citizens made up most of the congregation. I had grown up with most of the families so I knew them well. Only a couple of unfamiliar single parishioners—all still elderly—sat alone.

“Lemme give ya’ a big hug,” someone said.

Another identified herself “Judie. How are ya’ Amy? We missed ya’,”

“Yeahhhh,” I said automatically. I guess I meant I was doing well.

Slowly, between hugs and greetings, I swept my way halfway up to the preacher’s pulpit on the left-hand side and sat down to wait for the service to start. The wooden pew felt hard under my thin brown pants—really summer ones.

The lights flickered and I looked toward the back. Where was Mike? Probably getting a few puffs of his ciggy in before church started.

Only a few people had yet to take their seats. The men who would deliver the Lord’s supper filed in and sat in the first pew. I turned and looked again.

“How ya’ doin’ Amy, so glad you’re here today,” boomed the loud voice of our preacher as he clapped me on the back.

“Hi, Gale.”

The preacher leaned in, “What’s going on? Did you and your brother have a big argument on the way to church this morning?” Gale jabbed me in the side, all smiles.

“No, of course not. Why?”

“You tell me. Why is he sitting on the other side of the church by himself and here you are all by yourself?”

“Huh?”

He chortled. “You’re like an old married couple.” The preacher whistled away as he moved to the front pew so he would be ready to preach when it came time.

I craned my neck to see where Mike could be on the other side of the church. Finally, I found him, as Gale said, sitting alone.

As the song leader stood up to lead the first song, I picked up my cane and quickly swept my way over to where my brother sat. I made it just as the church stood and sang the first stanza. “Why are you sitting here alone?” I folded my cane in half and set it beside me and hissed, “The preacher thinks we are mad at each other.”

“Huh?”

I picked up a songbook, knowing the words were too small to see. “You were sitting on the opposite side of the church from me.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought you would find me.”

“What? Me find you?” This is mobility madness. He expected the vision-impaired person to find the sighted one? Crazy.

But kind of funny, too.

Mobility ‘Mad’ness. No one was mad at the other. It was just a mis-step of the minds.

My voice joined the others as the familiar chorus of the song reached me. I tried to hide my smile as the church moved on to the next stanza.

I looked at Mike who stood next to me, also not knowing most of the words to the song. He forgot to bring his reading glasses.

We are just a brother and sister who can’t see well—one due to an incurable condition and the other due to aging. But we are here to seek God’s grace along with a bunch of other imperfect people.

I will always have issues with mobility, some due to my own sight errors. I can miss open doors simply because they are already open, and I am looking for a closed door. How profound! I also need to seek better communication with my family.

Interesting how today’s problems are the result of human error.

The song chorus ended. “There is One who is like no other.” It reminded me there is one who commits no errors. No madness. No misunderstandings. He has it all in control. He is the One I need to tap into to move forward in all these areas of life.

As I leave, Gale catches me in a bear hug in the foyer. “Don’t be a stranger now.”

“You know, my brother and I were not mad at each other….” I tried to explain.

Gale brushed away my attempt. “I was just joshing ya’, giving ya’ a hard time.” He drew my brother into the circle of his embrace. “We’re so happy you’re a part of the body here. We got support canes, white canes, sometimes, wheelchairs. Hearing aids. Bifocals. Trifocals. We are all in need of the livin’ God to move forward.”

It is Mobility Madness, crazy, but in a good way.

You have just read “Mobility Madness” by Amy L. Bovaird. © January 28, 2020. All rights reserved.

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