O ye of little faith.

I stared as the usher wheel you up the ramp and into the sanctuary. Your wheelchair glides soundlessly over the glistening tiles. If I had closed my eyes, I would not have noticed your presence; oblivious like the rest of the crowd.

I stared as your head lay cocked to the side; your eyes never focused. The gnarled fingers of your hands clenched, unclenched. Your feet twisted, one in each direction. Your back hunched over your seat: the one you are destined to sit in for the rest of your life.

The worship leader leads us into the worship songs; asks that we stand. All around me worshippers lift up their hands in worship. Like flowers, they turn their faces to the source of life: God.

I stared as you raise your hands to the heavens and closed your eyes. I stared as your twisted mouth moved incoherently, trying hard to follow the music. Though guttural it may sound to other men, I am sure it was melodious unto His ears.

I stared at myself; able-bodied, knowing the song by heart in 3 languages, hands and feet made to give Him glory. I stared at myself; comfortable in my circle of friends whose minds are already wandering to where we would go after the service, hearts gladly anticipating the end of this tiresome routine. I stared at myself; arms crossed, mind far away, arrogant in every stance and thought.

I stare at myself; at my little faith.

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