Sermon given by Cil Dullea and Sandra DeVellis.

(Cil)

Please join me in a little time travel this morning -

     Heading off to Cedar Pond one crisp, October, Saturday morning my dog and I hurried past the stream gurgling over its gravel, but her insistent barking turned me around.  A black kitten hunkered shivering in the wet leaves at the edge of the brook.  I unbuttoned my flannel shirt and slid him in next to warm skin where he purred against me for the less than ten minutes it took 'til we burst back into the kitchen.

     "He's so tiny," dad said.  "Cil, keep him warm against your body.  Irma, how about making him some thinned down baby cereal?  I'll get a box and blanket."  The kitten was ravenous, but his shaking made eating chaotic.  Dad suggested I put my hand against the back of his head to steady him and it helped.  Pushing back against my fingers he ate everything he wasn’t wearing - but still shivered.

     Mother readied a litter tray.  I held him steady between my hands – success!  We all wrongly assumed that with input and output functioning, he wasn't too badly off, but later that day, dad said.  "You know - he needs to see Dr. Bulger, Priscilla."  Yes, I did.

     Our vet recommended a trip into Boston's Angel Memorial Hospital where they were certain he was brain damaged.  My eleven-year-old self worried they'd say he should be put down - and mother would agree, but the vet's proposition saved the kitten’s life.  “Just leave him with us,” he suggested, “we'd like to study him.”

     Mother's posture straightened.  “No,” she said, we'll just take him home.”  

     The doctor glared.  “You’re not doing him any favors,” and hostility hung in the air as we departed.

     The doctor hadn’t meant to goad mother – he couldn’t have known she'd respond so formidably, or understand, we already respected this feisty cat, different, yes, but seemingly positive he'd found himself a home.

     The next few days established a routine.  Three times a day the black kitten made staggering laps around the double bed, claws grasping at the bedspread to hang on, then ate, and used a litter box with help.  Otherwise, his crate was the extent of his world.  We had no expectations, no thoughts of miracles.  He was actively content.  Enough.  Hadn't what he'd suffered bestowed the right to a chance?

     His tremors persisted.  Dad said, "Golly he wobbles."  My brother said that should be his name.  Mother said, no, Mr. Wobbles, his grit deserves acknowledgement.  What we were unprepared for was his progress.

     In no time he held his head steady.  One surprising day he wasn’t wobbling, a new reality, and we'd missed its precise arrival.  My parents' never shared thoughts about what unfolded among us, we simply now had three cats, instead of two.  I thought then, still do, that the black cat was a gift for each of us, his every movement calculated and intentional but each one seemingly bringing him joy. 

      As he strengthened, his posture changed.  He flexed his claws into the fabric of the bedspread firmly.  Steadying him became unnecessary.  Somehow, imagining cat braces, he locked his knees and focused intently, falling only when distracted, that happening less frequently every day, a purr marking every conquest.  He ate as a giraffe does, legs spread, head angled straight down and rigid.  Early on we'd cuddled him, but as he became muscular he no longer relaxed against us and we settled for stroking; we communicated by sharing praise, encouragement, and affection.

     Next, he moved downstairs.  We couldn't quite decide when Mr. Wobbles' tail had changed.  Gradually it had become muscular, losing its ability to flex for a new, adaptive function, becoming a rigid, fifth appendage, a furred rudder that counter-balanced his gait.  To walk, he levered himself up on stiffened legs, shifted his weight to one side, let his tail sway until it crossed his center of gravity, steadied himself, picked up his opposing paws, moved them forward, focused, let 

his tail sway back the other way, shifted his weight to the other side, picked up his legs, moved them forward, and repeated.  It was mesmerizing to watch him sway along, black pendulum measuring progress like an inverted metronome.  The crate was forever retired, the living-room couch became his domain, and all uncontrolled movements disappeared as winter passed into late spring. 

      The time came to scrub winter off the wide, screened-in porch that ran the width of the house.  We spent many happy hours out there and the effort the project required to set-up was amply rewarded by the seasonal extra room.  We'd finished and were taking a well-deserved break when mother pointed and whispered, "Shh, look, he's come to find us."

     Enter Mr. Wobbles, swaying gently through the living room doorway to his own waltz, navigating the foyer judiciously, joining his family.  He reached up a paw, grabbed the fabric of the chaise lounge, hauled himself slowly onto it, sniffed the air, approved, and staked his claim.  That spot was his for fifteen summers.  After his ‘coming out’ there was no stopping him; he went everywhere – upstairs and down – eating with the other cats, sharing their litter box.

     One day, with Wobbles half-way across the kitchen, my brother inadvertently broke the cat's concentration as he thundered down from upstairs in a hurry to meet friends.  Terrorized by noise he couldn't process Wobbles lurched against the cabinets and careened sideways, his brain unable to function at the speed his fear demanded for escape.  We felt so badly the episode prompted a house rule no one ever disregarded: Don’t Move Fast.  

     Another time, when my brother’s friend, Jack, came through the back door and stared mouth agape as Wobbles swayed along his route Chuck said, “Just stay put a minute, he can’t hurry.”  Jack was horrified and said, "He's 'ghoulish,' why do you keep him?"  

     Chuck offered, “No, come meet him, he’s cool!”  But the young man declined and they left quickly.  Three years younger, I tried to see our black cat through Jack's eyes, unsuccessfully.      

     During Mr. Wobbles' lifespan, I considered the difference he had made on our family life more than once, but it wasn't until I came across a quote from a teenage student at Perkins School for the Blind that I acquired the words to clarify my feelings of gratitude.  

     She said, "I've finally realized, my life is about what I can do - not about what I can't."   

Thanks, Mr. Wobbles.   

(Sandra)

Thank you Cil - Now you might be wondering what lessons worthy of a sermon follow the story of Mr. Wobbles.  Several possibilities might occur to you: 

The role of the in dominatable spirit

The importance of love and support in all our lives

Maybe even our first UU principle – the inherent worth and dignity of all 

non human life included

It made me think about differences…and how to be grateful for them. 

When I was about 10, my brother and I were invited to eat supper at a neighbor’s house while my parents were out. They were Yankee and thought that SpaghettiOs would make an appropriate supper for the two Italian-American children next door. When our parents returned, we reported being embarrassed as to the polite way to respond to being served those awful Spaghettios, so different from the homemade pasta and sauce we enjoyed at home.  My mother said, new food was always “interesting” to her and we could always say ”interesting”  - but to make sure we always said it with a big smile. How grateful I am, that so young, I was encouraged to view difference as something positive , something interesting.   Rather than something, so often met with fear, anxiety or distaste. Why aversion to new foods? Why do we assume insanity when someone dances without music?  Why was that young person disgusted by Mr. Wobbles in Cil’s story?  I’m not sure but it is not an uncommon response, is it? 

Look around our world, our neighborhoods, our congregation we are not all alike.  We are a world of differences, age, race, socio economic status, linguistic, I could go on and on. I have been drawn to, perhaps influenced by my mother’s early teachings, and gifted by differences of many kinds.  Our focus this morning is on what we educators, call ‘special needs’ and more recently ‘neurodiverse”. Both Cil and I, have interacted with many ‘special needs” children and adults and have come to realize that they have informed our lives more profoundly than most other life experiences.  

In high school I volunteered with, what were then labeled, retarded children – later held a co-op college job as an aide in a psychiatric hospital – was a grad student social worker in a hospital and spent my career as a teacher in both pre-schools and colleges.  My college friend, Helen, and I began traditional preschool over 50 years ago. The majority of our students were “quote” normal. However because of my background and Helen’s as a teacher at the Cotting School for children with physical challenges, and our values, we never even considered excluding any child from our program.  Cil who was on our Board and spent much time in our program in addition to her own career, teaching art in elementary school, shared our values. 

We worked with a diverse group of children: A child who came to pre-school in a hospital bed,  some on crutches, using wheelchairs, or braces; some with a variety of diagnoses, cerebral palsy, Downs Syndrome, blindness, hearing impairments, selective mutism and dyslexia… Some who required speech or physical therapy as part of their program… and several who experienced emotional and psychological trauma with and without a diagnosis.  One memorable, little boy, was born with only one partially formed arm and fingers out of his shoulders because of thalidomide.  

Then there were my college students with as great a variety of difference as the pre-schoolers… I learned much from working with sign language interpreters for the deaf, notetakers for the learning disabled, and personal care aides for those with physical challenges. Experiences of managing a classroom including these students and those with Tourettes and those on the spectrum helped improve my teaching skills and allowed me to model humanity for the rest of the class.  I have learned from our students over the years, through letters and personal contacts how much being in an environment with different learners have enriched their lives as well.

Ok this isn’t just about our journey – or about political correctness and using the correct words when speaking about difference.  Words ARE important and we do need to be sensitive to the realities they create.  Words like disabled may be part of our vocabulary and we had to adjust to the term differently-abled . Remembering to use ‘People First Language”, for example saying ‘children with Down’s syndrome’ rather than referring to that Downs child.  The UU controversy over the Standing on the Side of Love and what the word standing might mean to some as well as the more recent consideration of pronouns to the trans community have been valuable in reminding us of the importance of language. 

 Yes, society has made some changes, enacted laws to accommodate and include some physical differences – cut backs on sidewalks – reserved parking spaces – reducing architectural barriers. We are so proud of our capital campaign, our elevator and the interest that many in our congregation have expressed in the Accessibility and Inclusion ministry. Aren’t we all?

But attitudes and acceptance can not be constructed or legislated. It isn’t always easy to know how to respond to someone who stands too close to us, or talks to loudly or who yells out at the wrong time.  It is not easy to figure out when is the right time to offer help or how to offer it in a helpful way or when to just stand back and wait. We may not have the patience to work with children or adults whose learning style requires more repetition  or more creativity than we have, but it is imperative we try.  We must recognize the feelings that come over us unbidden when someone looks physically different or acts in ways we don’t expect and begin to examine those feelings (and keep at it)

Each day, we learn so much more about the brain and its infinite variations. In the book, The Power of Neurodiversity: Dr. Thomas Armstrong states: “There is no normal brain sitting in a vat somewhere in the Smithsonian or National Institute of Health to which all other brains must be compared”.  We are all different in one way or another. Neurodiversity may be every bit as crucial for the human race as biodiversity is for life in general. Jody Picoult in the wonderful book “Mad Honey” written with trans writer Jennifer Finney Boylan reminds us the “difference, like gender is a social construct”. In our own church we have heard this theme before, from Archbishop Desmond Tutu ‘s quote in an Order of Service “God has created us to be different in order that we can realize our need of one another”. To Marie Morey in her sermon stating, “Diversity is an intentional part of all creation.  

I recently ran across a statement that ‘anthropology helps make the world safe for differences”. An “Us and Them” world is never safe for the “Them”. I am sorry, I think we all are, that it isn’t always safe to be different. I hope this sermon is about more than making the world safe, but to help us see differences as interesting, and, more than interesting, profound gifts to us all.

Cil and I have supported friends and family through the challenges of physical and mental health, illnesses and limitations…differences of many kinds. Last Sunday we attended a retirement party for a former student, Bonnie, who grew up with the physical limitations of cerebral palsy and a  significant hearing loss, who never-the-less, spent a career as a gifted, patient early childhood educator. We have also been blessed to see…that grandson of ours with dyslexia become an engineer…..that little girl with the crutches share our church community as a loving, kind activist….know and love several people on the spectrum….the little boy with the limb difference get a graduate degree from Columbia as a special needs teacher. 

We did not begin this sermon with the theme of gratitude in mind, but as Cil and I worked on it we became aware that it IS about gratitude for all the ways that our experiences with differences have touched, expanded and given purpose to our own lives. 

We are grateful that we are learning:

-to be patient … in waiting while someone completes a task or struggles to formulate a thought

-that sign language is every bit as successful in communicating and often more beautiful than the spoken word

-that social skills are simply conventions and kindness and patience are more important than arbitrary social rules

-that all kinds of bodies are truly wonderous and beautiful 

-that the heart contains a more important wisdom than intellect

We want to keep learning - to be grateful!