Worlds apart: So close and yet, so far

I can remember it like it was yesterday.

It was Father’s Day in the early 1990s at Mt. Olive Baptist Church in Carlsbad, N.M., my wife’s hometown and my former hang for 11 years before moving to San Antonio.

I usually sang in the Mt. Olive choir (yes, me — you can stop laughing) but this was Father’s Day, so us “dads” got the day off. I was in the pews, excused from the choir stand as one of the “honored fathers.” I was about four pews from the front, standing there as we sang the first of the customary three songs prior to the pastor’s message and invitation.

As we sang, I noticed two men scoot into the pew right behind me. I sang along, not paying much attention at the moment.

I could hear the two new-to-Mt.-Olive gentlemen “kinda” humming along to the first song — we all do it; when you know a song but don’t quite know all the words.

And so began the second song; same hum-along.

You know, I bet a hymnal would help, I reasoned. So I grabbed one of the hymnals from in front of me and politely turned in my pew toward the two men.

They were both in their mid-40s, I suppose, a bit older than me at the time. I gestured with the book but was met with a quick, dismissive wave of the hand and a mouthed “No thanks” from the one closest to me.

I turned back, sang along with the chorus and thought, “Maybe they don’t want MY hymnal, because they think I need it.” I didn’t, because I already knew what songs my pianist wife had chosen for the day.

Upon the start of the next song, I tried again. I opened the book to the right page, turned and said, “Here you go, I don’t need it, I know this one by heart.”

The man nearest me leaned his body forward without moving his feet, resting one hand on the back of the pew, the other on the hymnal, and drew close to me.

“I can’t read,” he said — abrupt, but decisively — before withdrawing.

I withdrew the book. “Oh, sorry,” I replied, which was met with a “That’s OK” from the gent.

I turned in my spot, a bit startled by the brief exchange. I rejoined the congregation in song — but my mind was in flight somewhere else.

Can’t. Read. That had really thrown me.

A wave of emotions enveloped me. I was embarrassed for him; an adult, not knowing how to read, and “put on the spot” in the one bastion of life where we flock to be closer to Him, for our souls to be at rest.

Then I wondered — how exactly does one get through life without reading? Was there a disconnect in school? Maybe he dropped out. Maybe there had been a learning disability setback.

Or was it a societal thing? He had Hispanic features; maybe English was a new language, or a second language, for him that he’d never bothered to learn, other than to speak it.

There I sat, in a church — where we’re supposed to help one another in the name of the Lord — and I didn’t have a clue what to do.

Since I’d offered a hymnal and been rebuffed, I knew he wouldn’t be able to read the bible verses the pastor would be preaching on. (“He’s never even ‘read’ the bible,” I thought to myself.)

Yet, I felt compelled to help him. Isn’t that, as Christians, what we’re taught to do, help our fellow man?

Later, at altar call, “my guy” stayed put while his friend went forth. There were just a few minutes left before dismissal; if I was going to act, now was the time.

I took a deep breath as I made up my mind, I am going to reach out, intervene, offer help.

But, alas — the “right moment” sputtered away.

When guy no. 2 returned from the altar, I turned just in time to see them both slip out the front door before closing prayer.

A crushing blow, for sure. I had conjured up the courage to approach him, to befriend him. To inquire, to assist.

I had these grandiose images of us being friends, me tutoring him, high-fiving each time he recognized a word, or sounded out a sentence and turned a page ... all that, gone.

I never saw him again. Service ended and I sought out my family. Just to be sure, I looked around and saw what I expected — no sign of him.

As I drove away, I realized how we’d come together, for just a fleeting moment ... only to cut away, each returning to our vastly separate worlds.