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Stoop to Understanding

FROM
Break Out: Finding Freedom
When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold
James R. Hasse

"O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek ... to be understood as to understand ..."

St. Francis of Assisi, attributed prayer

The steps were broad. The railings on both sides were sturdy. I slid my hands along the railings, pulling myself up one step at a time, always putting my left foot first and then my right. Each step up in the dark took me closer to Dorene's second floor apartment, which still had light coming from its street-side window, even though it was past 1:00 a.m. and I had said good night to her 45 minutes earlier.

My confrontation with Dorene was now inevitable. There was no turning back. I had driven 10 miles, almost back home, and then turned around in the middle of a country road to return to town during the dewy, moonlit September evening.

As I reached the top of the stairs, my chest started heaving to get more of the still night air. The landing opened into a broader space than I had first anticipated from ground level, where I left my crutches propped up against the railing at the first step.

I tried to walk straight to the door by placing my left foot and then my right in front of me, but, without my crutches, I wobbled and lost my balance. I caught the post in back of me with my left hand, regained my stability and started angrily clawing at the stoop's railing, using it for balance in a hand-over-hand series of embraces, to get to the doorway.

I had first noticed Dorene at a picnic for a Bible study group at my cousin's home. Although I was not part of the study group, he had invited me, and I sat on the lawn, obliviously munching potato chips and watching the group play volleyball in the backyard. Every time Dorene would jump to connect with the ball, she would punctuate her punch with a grunt. Her blond hair, styled like Gloria Steinem's, would flip sensually to the left side of her face.

A daughter of a Lutheran pastor in Indiana, Dorene conducted the choirs at our local high school and at our church, where she was also a frequent soloist. She had a raspy speaking voice, which converted surprisingly into a superb soprano on Sunday mornings.

Although I did not introduce myself to Dorene at the picnic that day, I did call her one night a couple of weeks later and asked her if she wanted to attend "Music Man," a production of our local theater group. To my surprise, she said yes.

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