There was a funeral at Broadway Christian Church the week before Christmas for 16-year-old Maria. My colleague John DeLaporte officiated.

In a lovely, eloquent, gospel-grounded homily, John introduced us to Maria and her adoptive parents, Charlie and Jerry, saying: 

The prologue to Maria’s story is one of tremendous challenge and hardship; her earliest years filled with difficulties both medical and familial.  But all that changed with a single phone call from a social worker in the foster care system to Charlie Thomas. 

The question to this mother of four boys and foster mother to countless other young men over 18 years of foster parenting, the question to this quintessential boy-mom was “How would you like a little girl?” 

To which Charlie smiled and replied, “Absolutely!” 

She called Jerry at work and said, “Congratulations!  In a few hours you are going to have a new daughter!”  

Now, most dads get nine months to let that news sink in, but not Jerry. He had only a few hours!  And his response?  “I can’t wait!  I’ll be home soon.”  

And the love story begins!

Charlie said, “The first time the social worker showed her to me, I knew she was my little girl!”

John continued,

Maria’s cerebral palsy, coupled with her loss of sight, brought upon numerous medical complications.  There were long nights in hospital rooms, tests, and procedures.  There were therapies to learn and IEPs (Individualized Educational Plans) to follow.  Medicine regimens and care routines created a structure and a rhythm to her days.

John detailed the tireless, tender love with which Charlie, Jerry, and family embraced Maria, how Broadway enfolded Maria through its Every Ability Flourishes ministry to children and youth with disabilities, and the abiding affection her teachers and friends had for her.

When John named the love Maria herself exuded, heads nodded throughout the congregation. That she had endeared herself to so many was evidence by the line in which Jennie and I stood during the previous evening’s visitation that wound its way from where Maria lay in the church’s original sanctuary, into the hallway, and all the way down to Fellowship Hall. People of all ages and abilities, including many of Maria’s classmates in wheelchairs, waited thirty minutes and more to pay their respects. 

I wrote in my journal the next morning, “A lot of love in there last night.”

There was a day care center in the church I served in North Carolina in the 1990s. The kids, teachers, and therapists of Wilmington’s United Cerebral Palsy (UCP) were weekday tenants at no cost to UCP.  Seeing it all as the Lord's work and inspired by one of our church’s own dear sisters in Christ with cerebral palsy, Laura George, the church picked up the tab for utilities and upkeep.     

To get from my office to the sanctuary, I passed through the educational wing. I have fond memories of weaving my way through that oft-times congested space.  Between therapists on bended knee gently encouraging hesitant five-year-olds in leg braces to take their first steps to the older youth who walked more confidently, albeit still hand-in-hand with their steadfastly patient teachers, making my way from one end of the hall to the other was an exercise in agility and wonder. Stepping to the right and left, sometimes backing into a classroom to get out of the way, eventually seeing enough open tile to be able to walk straight ahead without interference, I'd wend my way with admiration for the dedication of the teachers and determination of the students.  It was a rewarding walk. 

But not for everyone. Some in our congregation saw scrapes on the walls and wagged their heads in disapproval.  Upon spotting a new gouge in the baseboard – the telltale mark of an offending wheelchair – sharp whispers could be heard of  "the damage to our building." Though few and far between, such murmurings were nonetheless there. 

After being in First Christian’s space for twenty years, the center received a grant that enabled them to build their own building and serve a larger number of children. I asked the staff if it would be possible before their departure to build a Sunday morning worship service around our 20-year partnership. 

So it was that two decades' worth of UCP staff, families, classmates and alumni gathered with our congregation for worship.  Our sanctuary wasn't designed for the number of disabled worshippers we had. The center and side aisles were congested front to rear with wheelchairs and walkers.  It was beautiful. 

Late in the service, one of the long-time physical therapists stepped to the pulpit to speak: 

“We thank you for your kindness and generosity over these past twenty years.  Please know that the families who are here this morning represent only a small percentage of the many lives who have been touched – made whole! – in the rooms and hallways of your church.  We've witnessed miracles here.  The miracles of first words and first steps as well as miracles of healing when parents and children learned to cope with their difficulties. 

We know it has not been easy for you to have us here for these many years.  But please know that just as the nail holes in Christ's hands and feet were the physical signs of his sacrifice for the world, the scrapes and gouges in the walls and doorframes of your church from our wheelchairs and walkers are the physical signs of your congregation's loving sacrifice to the physically-challenged children of this county.

And as long as this church building stands, the memory of UCP will live on in this church.  Not because of the scars, but, like Christ, because of the hundreds of lives that have been touched, changed, and renewed by your sacrifice.”

They moved out shortly thereafter to their new place. But each Lenten season thereafter, as the church prepared itself for the passion of Christ, I walked alone through a silent hallway, eyeing scars and gouges on baseboards and doorframes, giving thanks for a gentle prophet's reminder that church buildings, if sacrificed in the service of others, become the Body of Christ in this world.

John reminded us at the close of his homily what Jesus said. “Let the children come unto me.” That includes the late Laura George, my sister in Christ in NC, her UCP classmates, Maria and her friends in Columbia, and you and me.

Jesus was born of Mary – Maria – to bear forth God’s love to our world.