Submarine, pt II.

While subbing at Hums Elementary the past few days, part of my daily duties were to assist a boy named Tyler as he ate lunch. Tyler is eight years old, knows what Paul Revere yelled while riding through the countryside, loves Veggie Tales, and is rapidly going blind. While I sat with him at lunch, I watched him as his eyes stared up to the tops of the curtains in the cafeteria, desperately trying to see his surroundings. But, he couldn't, and the frustration was written all over his face, which was riddled with the pain of being defeated. Even the way he spoke communicated his hopelessness, speaking quietly and stammering through his words. And I will be completely honest. The first time I met Tyler, I found it a little more difficult to believe that there was an all powerful, all knowing God who loves us. Why would this eight year old be going blind if there was? I sat and talked with Tyler, thinking, 'God, what do You think You're doing?'

But there was something else about Tyler. Or rather, about the way everyone else reacted to him. Just about every student who passed Tyler said hello and offered to help him. Kid after kid walked by him and said hello so that they were sure he heard them. In the lunch line, two or three kids asked him what kind of milk he wanted. A little girl helped him find his chair. Someone else offered to take his trash up. And as I saw all of these seven and eight and nine year olds interacting with this boy, I thought, 'Oh, there You are.'

Friday was my last consecutive day working with Tyler. After he finished watching his video in the resource room I was working in (he did so from two inches from the screen), he stood up and turned to where he thought I was. Staring into his darkness looking for me, he raised his hand up. 'Goodbye, goodbye,' he said timidly. He left the room, and a few seconds later, he walked back in. He looked back toward me and stammered, 'Th-thank you, Mister FiiizGera.'

Thank you, Tyler.