[SB] Scrambling towards Zion: Sam and John Doe #24 (March 2)

[Molly Wolf]

Sam and John Doe #24

Peter, his helper, tells me that Sam has double joints, which accounts 
for the oddity of Sam's elbows and knees but does not, I think, account 
for his dowager's hump.  Sam's spine is so curved that he has to peer up 
at you by turning his head, like an arthritic little old man. I don't 
think he's so old, though, even though he seems shrunken and wasted in 
his overlong swim trunks -- well under 5 feet tall and fragile to look 
at, although Peter says he can be surprisingly strong. Hard to tell how 
old Sam is, but I doubt he's even middle-aged.

I don't see Sam often -- it depends on whether we both show up at the 
pool at the same time -- but nonetheless, I'm very fond of him because, 
like so many Downs Syndrome people, he exudes a sort of fresh sweetness, 
the sweetness of almonds or really, really good vanilla ice cream, an 
uncomplicated dearness like the best toast with honey. Oh, he's not 
perfect: he can be very stubborn and compulsive, and I've seen him flap 
with helpless anger. But he's shy and friendly and easy to get along 
with, in the pool.

He's easily scared, and so concern for him tends to make me move slowly, 
gently, thoughtfully and keep my voice quiet and warm: a spiritual 
exercise of the first order. He may laugh when someone in the pool 
splashes him, but it's a frightened laugh and he really hates the shock 
of water in his face. One of his helpers splashed him a few times "just 
for fun," and now Sam has to be tempted into the pool, praised for his 
courage when he finally creeps down the steps and into the shallow end.

But today the pool was empty except for me, Peter, and Sam, and I felt 
gentleness hovering over the water, and a sort of friendly intimacy. 
Peter works with the profoundly handicapped, and that brings out either 
kindness or cruelty, and in him it has brought out a kindness that I can 
feel and that relaxed my own self-protective guard. Sam nodded and 
babbled sotto voce as we talked about Downs Syndrome and Fragile X and 
Sam's loving mother, who died five years ago, and other quiet subjects. 
I turned off my music and simply moved in the water, keeping my body 
busy without trying actively to work out.

I can't tell you what we talked about because it wasn't that sort of 
conversation.  It was about Sam even when it wasn't.  Sam made the 
occasional contribution in English and then returned to his own private 
language, Peter keeping half an ear tuned, the way you do with small 
children, monitoring the babble for something that might need a response.

After a while, Sam got cold, and the two of them retired to the hot tub 
and I got back to my workout and turned on my private music: the Wailin' 
Jennies, the Dixie Chicks, the McGarrigles, Paul Simon, the Beatles.  
The guys were still in the hot tub and peace was still brooding over the 
water when I came to the end of my workout hour and started to cool down 
and stretch.

And then through my earphones I heard a much-loved quiet guitar 
noodling, the intro to Mary Chapin Carpenter's "John Doe 24," and I 
found myself swamped by memory.

I first heard this lovely meditation years and years ago, late one 
Saturday night in Washington, DC, driving back from a dance with a guy 
whose understated, sustaining affection had kept me afloat through a 
very bad time, the way my swim belt now keeps me upright (and my iPod 
dry) in this blue water. I thought blessings back at him as Carpenter's 
thoughtful amber voice, pierced through with love and tender 
imagination, wrapped itself around the soul of a deaf-mute black man 
called John Doe #24, judged to be a half-wit and institutionalized for 
almost 50 years in Illinois until his death, still unidentified.

I lay back in the water and watched the blue dusk deepen as the guys 
left for the changing room, and thought to myself that this really is 
the love of God: this willingness to be completely present with those 
whose lives are so stripped bare of all pretension and ambition.  People 
like Sam and John Doe #24 can do so little by this world's standards; 
they can only *be* -- Sam babbling quietly in the water, John Doe 
playing the harmonica and dancing with the nurses in a state 
institution. I've known people like little Billy Bly who could do even 
less, who really were "only" just *being*, but whose whole existence was 
poured into the essential business of being soul.

Jean Vanier has it right: we serve our own souls by serving those who 
are little by this world's worth. They are the people to admire and give 
worth to, because they show us what it really all comes down to: 
vulnerability, gentleness, hopefulness. He followed Jesus' clear example 
in pointing us in their direction and in joining them himself, wrapping 
them round in the thoughtful amber of love.

The blue dusk closed down as lights came on. Chapin's singing ended, and 
Brantford Marsalis's wistful sax lifted John Doe's soul up toward a God 
who would open his ears and loosen his singing tongue, as God will add 
strength and freedom and fullness of being to Sam's sweet generosity 
when Sam comes before God, perfecting what needs perfecting and bringing 
to fullest fruit all this lovely promise.

-- for Allen Stairs
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