Thoughts and Comments, Anyone?--on GOD LIVES UNDER THE BED
I am not the Kevin referred to in the writing below from Kelly Adkins. It does remind me of “special” people I have known or volunteered with over the decades. I want to take time and share this with you and encourage comments below.
I live in an Arab and Muslim country, Kuwait, where the same message can be shared with those who practice Islam, i.e. “Christianity” as shared in one of the last paragraphs.
In Kuwait and in some Arab lands, like UAE’s Sharjah have been active in promoting awareness on the needs of the handicapped in their society. Alas, centuries of biases need to be overcome to a much much greater degree in months and years to come.
GOD LIVES UNDER THE BED
By Kelly Adkins
Don't start reading this one until you've got more than 3 or
4 minutes to just "scan" over it. It deserves some time for
reflection.
I envy Kevin. My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his
bed. At least that's what I heard him say one night.
He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped
to listen,
"Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see.
Under the bed..."
I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room. Kevin's
unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But
that night something else lingered long after the humor. I
realized for the first time the very different world Kevin
lives in.
He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of
difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's
6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult.
He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a
7-year-old, and he always will.
He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed,
that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our
tree every Christmas and that airplanes stay up in the sky
because angels carry them.
I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different.
Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life?
Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the
disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, return to eat his
favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.
The only variation in the entire scheme is laundry, when he
hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with
her newborn child.
He does not seem dissatisfied.
He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a
day of simple work.
He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the
stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to
gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores.
And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays!
That's the day my Dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a
soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on
the destination of each passenger inside.
"That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps
his hands.
His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday
nights.
And so goes his world of daily rituals and weekend field
trips.
He doesn't know what it means to be discontent.
His life is simple.
He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and
he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats.
His needs have always been met, and he never worries that
one day they may not be.
His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he
is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the
carpet, his heart is completely in it.
He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does
not leave a job until it is finished.
But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax.
He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His
heart is pure.
He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be
kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of
argue.
Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is
not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry.
He is always transparent, always sincere. And he trusts
God.
Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to
Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God - to
really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an
"educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest
companion.
In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity
I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith.
It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some
divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions.
It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the
handicap . . I am.
My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they
all become disabilities when I do not trust them to God's
care.
Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn?
After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of
innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness
and love of God.
And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we
are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts,
I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who
believed that God lived under his bed.
Kevin won't be surprised at all!
When you receive this, say a prayer. That's all you have to
do.
http://www.llerrah.com/godunderthebed.htm
I live in an Arab and Muslim country, Kuwait, where the same message can be shared with those who practice Islam, i.e. “Christianity” as shared in one of the last paragraphs.
In Kuwait and in some Arab lands, like UAE’s Sharjah have been active in promoting awareness on the needs of the handicapped in their society. Alas, centuries of biases need to be overcome to a much much greater degree in months and years to come.
GOD LIVES UNDER THE BED
By Kelly Adkins
Don't start reading this one until you've got more than 3 or
4 minutes to just "scan" over it. It deserves some time for
reflection.
I envy Kevin. My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his
bed. At least that's what I heard him say one night.
He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped
to listen,
"Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see.
Under the bed..."
I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room. Kevin's
unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But
that night something else lingered long after the humor. I
realized for the first time the very different world Kevin
lives in.
He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of
difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's
6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult.
He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a
7-year-old, and he always will.
He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed,
that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our
tree every Christmas and that airplanes stay up in the sky
because angels carry them.
I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different.
Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life?
Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the
disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, return to eat his
favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.
The only variation in the entire scheme is laundry, when he
hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with
her newborn child.
He does not seem dissatisfied.
He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a
day of simple work.
He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the
stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to
gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores.
And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays!
That's the day my Dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a
soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on
the destination of each passenger inside.
"That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps
his hands.
His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday
nights.
And so goes his world of daily rituals and weekend field
trips.
He doesn't know what it means to be discontent.
His life is simple.
He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and
he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats.
His needs have always been met, and he never worries that
one day they may not be.
His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he
is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the
carpet, his heart is completely in it.
He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does
not leave a job until it is finished.
But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax.
He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His
heart is pure.
He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be
kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of
argue.
Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is
not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry.
He is always transparent, always sincere. And he trusts
God.
Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to
Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God - to
really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an
"educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest
companion.
In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity
I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith.
It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some
divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions.
It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the
handicap . . I am.
My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they
all become disabilities when I do not trust them to God's
care.
Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn?
After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of
innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness
and love of God.
And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we
are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts,
I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who
believed that God lived under his bed.
Kevin won't be surprised at all!
When you receive this, say a prayer. That's all you have to
do.
http://www.llerrah.com/godunderthebed.htm
Labels: handicapped Kevin comments thoughts on faith and God
posted by Kevin Anthony Stoda at 9:59 AM
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