She lived across the street from the house in which I grew up.  I don’t remember her name…perhaps I never knew it.  What I do remember is that for some strange reason as a young child I would find myself regularly knocking at her door.  Her daughter, Mrs. Schulz, would answer.  She was a kind woman who was always busy, or at least I thought so because she always seemed a bit out of breath and in constant motion.  She was always very happy to see me and would bubble over with excitement.  Now I realize she was grateful for the company, for she kept a constant vigil of loving and caring.  I am sure there were days that she longed for another face, even that of a child.

Mrs. Schulz led me down a long, narrow hallway, dimly lit, to that room I had come to know so well.  I walked to the bed…it was an old bed and the mattress sat up high.  There was an old wheelchair beside the bed that was made out of wood.  I was very curious about that old chair with the big wheels!

Everything else in the room fades in my memory, blurs out in the light of that face.  My friend was totally paralyzed.  She was propped up in the big bed with lots of huge pillows.  It seems that she was dressed in a pretty gown.  Her face was old with lots of wrinkles, and in spite of its lack of expression, her face was a kind face.  What I remember most are her eyes.  They were all that could speak and they spoke volumes.  Sometimes they danced with delight at the mere sound of my voice.  Sometimes big tears would roll down her cheeks as everything else laid motionless.  I was fascinated with the way eyes could talk and how much love I felt pouring out of those eyes for me.  I didn’t know much else about her.  I still wonder what led me so often to that place just to be with her in silence, loving her and letting myself be loved by her.  Maybe sometimes words get in the way.

I still see those blue eyes.  They come back to me from time to time in my ministry.  I saw them in the child in Haiti who was hungry.  I saw them in Celeste, a young woman in her final days of cancer.  As other things shut down, the silent voice of the eyes speaks more loudly, with deeper intensity.  Those who care stop to listen.

Perhaps, my dear Mrs. Blue Eyes, you taught me as a child the sensitivity to listen to those eyes.  Thank you for your friendship.  Those moments with you were precious, and who would have ever thought that you who were speechless could have been such a loud voice for this child!  Perhaps it is from you, my friend, that I began to hear the voice of silence.

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