Gary Ried's banjo has a very special place in my heart. It's an entry-level Epiphone, something a father would buy his son to humor a budding interest. Yet despite it's humble appearance, Gary's banjo has actually seen many years of use, and it shows in the thinning Remo head. It's not a particularly pretty sounding instrument, but Gary will probably always play it, simply because it has so many stories. A couple weeks ago, Gary and I were walking down the streets of Albuquerque, singing pop songs bluegrass style with his road-worn five string, looking for people who might want a song, a prayer, or just a normal conversation.
There is a certain balance between timidity and boldness, caution and reckless abandon, that has to be observed when a few harmless musicians search the streets for the vagrants of society. We are sort of like lambs hunting for lions. As we prowled the streets armed with our voices, we came to a low-income housing area and were promptly greeted by a group of inebriated Hispanics who hooped and hollered at the sound of Gary's banjo. I separated myself from the group and ended up in a conversation with a young mother and her three children, who despite their small size and unfortunate economic situation completely made up for the general lack of grace in the neighborhood. The oldest, Delphina, was about Six or Seven, and she sat silently behind her brother on the stairs of the small apartment. Flower, the second born, was probably about five, and her vocabulary and politeness was quite superior to that of her parents. Little Shaun junior was more interested in the banjo than anything else, and he sat with his arms extended expectantly and called out, "Kitar! Kitar!", waiting for me to hand him the over-sized twang-toy.
I sat down on the sidewalk and joined the underlings. Flower welcomed me into their knee-high society by boldly introducing herself and her siblings, and I did my best to listen to her six year old Spanglish dialog above the noise of her brother's new found musical genius. I had just joined another world, three feet below the hopelessness of poverty, where things like family and friendship and exploration matter.
I was informed that Delphina suffered from Cerebral Palsy, and as a result couldn't walk. Her skinny little legs were turned in, and she hobbled neatly from aunt to uncle to father to mother for support. The family asked if we would pray for her, so we gathered around, lay our hands on the little girl, and had a little chat. As we lifted our prayers up, Delphina simply looked at us questioningly, as if she wondered why we were holding her up and touching her knees. I took her hands and helped her along the sidewalk, walking backwards and crouched as I watched her step slowly straiten out. She limped the length of the apartment and back, past the sceptical stares of relatives and friends, with her hands and eyes locked on mine. My friends and I wanted to see if she would walk on her own, but she just wouldn't let go. I would pull my hands away as I felt her strength growing and her grip loosening, but she could only go a few steps before she saw that she was on her own and grabbed for me. This went on for a while until one of my friends picked her up and put her in my arms so we could continue praying.
I know I don't know Delphina, or her story, or why any of this had to happen to her, but as we walked together and as I held her and prayed for her, I began to understand a very small chapter in her story. I don't know if you believe that God can physically give you sympathy pain, but that's what happened. When I say that I began to understand Delphina's story, I mean that in the sense that I was holding her and praying, and God gave me her pain for a moment.
I wish I could say that she walked fine after all this, but I don't think the story is over. It's going to be a process, but I know she will be a light in her small, underprivileged community, and I just pray that God gave her His strength, peace, and joy when he took the pain out of her.
