FOR DONALD

When he walked into my office, something drew me to him instantly. “No, you have to fill it out here,” I said, which prompted him to drop the application, awkwardly apologize, and timidly utter, “I come back later.” I knew then that if I was going to take advantage of affirming one who probably received little, it was time to put my things down and forget about the next line on my to-do list.

It was against company policy to fill out the application for Donald, but on that busy late afternoon, together we sat for over an hour, as I helped him spell out his address, education, and minimal experience. There was little for this 50 some year old man to write; however, Donald didn’t know how to write. I watched as he misspelled his own name.

Hoping our company chef would feel like he “owed me one,” I played to his compassionate side and convinced him to hire Donald, a man most likely, that current day culture prefers to ignore. Thus began my sweet relationship with this sensitive, articulate man.

He wasn’t articulate like you and I think of. He didn’t use poetic words nor those with phonetically pleasing syllables. But when he walked down the hall to set up the employee lunchroom each day, he had something to say to all, usually with a warm, welcoming smile. I would hear him singing James Brown in the hallway – as he’d razz me for not knowing the words. I would hear him laugh like a little boy. I’d also hear him cry some days, when those of seemingly greater intelligence teased him for who he was… or rather, who he was not.

Donald was a mentally disabled adult… a short, plump, balding African-American man, with a little gray fuzz just above his ears. I saw so much more than that. When he’d see me in the hallway, he’d say, “Hello, Miss Ann! You not like other people. You not like them. You different.” I’m not quite sure what he saw in me; in fact, it blows me away to think of how two people from polar demographics could befriend one another so sweetly. But I would hope it has something to do with the fact that I tried to simply love him where he was at. I wanted him to know I valued him just as he was, and I felt no wiser nor better than he.

For wisdom and intelligence have nothing to do with one another. I’ve known some really smart people who weren’t very wise at all. People who would never sit down at a table with those of a different demographic. People who judge. People who are quick to utter truth – but neglect to offer grace. There is no wisdom in that.

Thank God for my time with Donald. No doubt he taught me much.

AR