Jesus in Pink and Blue

I just got back to the warmth of my room from the dreary dripping outdoors. I was only running errands, running to a meeting. And I think I saw some of Jesus.

As I was crossing Wells where it corners with Chicago Ave, I looked both ways like mommy always told me to: right, then left, then right again. Next I looked ahead, squinting against the inconsistent downpour, and walking toward me was a man in blue and a woman in pink, walking arm in arm. Both were obviously mentally handicapped. Both had deformed hands and mouths. Both walked with a limp. Both were blind.

To be honest, I didn't understand what I was seeing. How could they lead each other? How could they love each other? But they did. Both of those.

Their twisted hands intertwined, tucked beneath the woman in pink’s arm. She held the hand of the man in blue close to her, clenched it in her armpit as if to say, "Stay right here. Hold me here. I'll hold on to you, too." It took them several minutes to cross the intersection, longer than the walking man said they could have. As the green light announced for the cars to rush on, horn intruded and insisted they not slow traffic any longer. At the sound, the man in blue’s face wrinkled in worry, his eye brows raised and met above his scaled eyes that fixated on nothing. As if sensing his concern, the woman in pink gripped his hand tighter and tapped her outstretched cane, groping for the curb to signal the finish line. It came not many moments later, and they rested from the race allowing silenced horns to be their applause.

The man in blue wiped misting rain drops from his forehead with the palm of his hand, and covered his eyes, breathing out his worry. The woman in pink turned toward him with humorous intent and brightened eyes that hungered to look into his. "Were you thcared," she accused more than inquired. "You were, weren't you?" She lifted her chin and out came a deep, child-like laugh. "I wathn't thcared," he defended himself shyly. "Not when you holded my hand like that. That one of the reathonth I luh you." She giggled like a five year old, until the man in blue tapped for her attention and made her shoulders face his. He searched for the sides of her head with his mangled fingers, and pulled her toward himself, kissing her forehead with the gentleness one would kiss a newborn. "Thop it," she blushed. "We have to catch our ter-ain."

And with that, she mingled his fingers with hers once again, tucked them in her armpit and continued toward the Brown Line.

I didn't want them to journey on. I wanted to be an onlooker in their world for even a moment longer. But soon enough busied life protruded itself again, reminding me of the to-do's of Bible school. So, I left the scene, immediately re-enveloped in my life, my job, my homework. But now, with my errands finished and my meeting ended, I'm caught wondering at this scene. If I'm honest, I don't know how to feel. One pant of my heart is to heal them if I could; to give them sight and speech and able limbs. But my heart acknowledges that in doing so, I would steal them of their victory and joy and accomplished love. To take away the pain would take away the beauty. And that would be robbery, not only to them, but to all mankind they encounter.

I’m aware of something more profound here; too profound to overlook. Something between them and me and my busyness and the Brown Line train was uttered. Something mysteriously divine was communicated in the silence of our non-interaction. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it can be summarized and categorized by something cliché like love. Maybe it’s endurance or triumph or accomplishment. Or maybe it can’t be explained. Maybe it shouldn’t. Perhaps mystery is alright; maybe beauty unboxed is safe, too.

I’m not used to this; mystery, I mean. I think I lost it somewhere between Hermeneutics and Systematic Theology. I’m not used to seeing Jesus in the street, standing in the rain. I’m not used to Him being handicapped, and I didn’t think He would use a cane. But He was there, outside the church, without exegesis and without a category. Whoever said He was stain-glassed deceived me. Whoever said beauty uncataloged is dangerous confused me. Whoever said that the blind leading the blind was a bad idea never crossed at the corner Wells and Chicago and saw some of Him in the rain.