Reading Time: 4 minutes

by AJ Canterbury

Working as a vocational rehabilitation counselor provided numerous opportunities for me to interact with all different kinds of people who had different kinds of disabilities. What quickly became apparent was how the same diagnosis never produced the same obstacles. The saying around the office was “no one disability affected people in the same way.”

The one common denominator was no matter the type of disability, in its wake was hardship and challenges that could too easily consume your focus. All too often I met with clients who battled depression because of their situation. They came into my office defeated by how much their disability had taken from them.

My job called on me to discern the needs and obstacles the person’s disability caused in gaining or keeping employment. I offered them guidance and support to either eliminate the barrier altogether or find a smoother path around it. What they often needed in addition to practical relief was hope and something to cling to amidst the turbulence.

As someone who had lived most of their adult life, I understood well their dilemma. I found my own mind got tossed about by the waves, struggling for something to hold on to. I needed that reminder as much as my clients.

By God’s grace, Alan (not his real name) came into my office. He carried with him a perspective I would not forget.

The Isolation of Suffering.

I had just begun to work the deaf and hard of hearing caseload, where all the clients had some kind of hearing disability. It was set apart from the general disability caseload because hearing loss contained its own unique services and procedures. I was still trying to wade through the new medical vocabulary of the audiograms and the ENTs, when Alan walked into my office.

His flannel shirt and suntanned wrinkled face communicated he was a man accustomed to the outdoors. Alan stood in my doorway, clutching his faded ball cap nervously before him. Alan carried himself in a self-abased way, giving the appearance he was taking up my time by showing up for his appointment.

I greeted him and motioned for him to sit down. I immediately launched into how I started all of my meetings: introducing myself and giving a quick spiel about what vocational rehabilitation services look like. I was so accustomed to giving the speech that it came out fast and route.

I hadn’t gotten far into it when I recognized Alan’s blank stare. He gave a shy smile and shook his head apologetically. He motioned to his ears and again shook his head, in a loud voice he said, “Sorry, I can’t understand you.”

I felt embarrassed that I hadn’t been more thoughtful and hadn’t paid more attention. I fumbled for the technology device I had been given but had never needed to use before. It was an amplification headset that was connected to a lapel mic I would wear, so when Allen put on the headset it was almost like he was wearing a pair of hearing aids.

Alan patiently waited for me to get the mic pinned to my shirt before he put on the headset and grinned when I started to speak. He was elated that he was finally able to engage in conversation with somebody else.

We started with talking about the history of his hearing loss. Alan related his story to me, sharing how his hearing loss had continued to deteriorate the older he got and how his job in construction probably exacerbated his hearing deficit.

As we talked, Alan moved into describing how the hearing loss was affecting his everyday life. He confided the intense isolation that he felt from others. Since he could not engage in conversation, he eventually retreated from social activities.

My own hearing loss was minor in comparison, but I empathized with what Alan was telling me. So much of our relationships depended on the ability to interact through conversation. When that communication was hindered by a significant hearing disability, I could imagine how isolating that would be.

The longer he talked, the more strained his voice became. The accessibility of the headset provided Alan the comfort of having someone who could understand what he had to say. But it also triggered his pain as if he was going through them for the first time. 

When he looked up at me, his bright blue eyes had turned a cloudy gray. He only held my gaze for a moment before his head and shoulders dropped and he stared at the carpet. Alan seemed to have gotten lost in the sadness like so many of my other clients had experienced. The same sadness I have often found myself wandering.

He appeared so defeated, I feared he wouldn’t be able to rise up. But he did.

The Assurance from a Firm Foundation

Alan lifted his head once again and locked eyes with me. His voice, that had just been trembling from pain, now came forward with bold assurance.

“But thank God, I am saved.”

His entire demeanor changed. Alan set up straight in his chair, his shoulders rolled confidently back, and his face resolute. On this foundation, Alan had planted his flag. He would not allow circumstance to move him from this solid ground.

Alan was able to see past his temporal condition and set his eyes firmly on the joy that was coming. And it was enough to restore his countenance. He had uncovered the one thing that was his most important truth, the one thing he would not loosen his grip on.

His attitude reminded me of Paul’s words to the church at Philippi: “But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ” (Philippians 3:7-8).

His experience had not been one of gain, but even though Alan had lost so much due to his hearing loss, the gain of his salvation far outweighed any of it. Gain was loss; loss was loss. Gaining Christ triumphed over it all.

His words were simple, but they penetrated my heart. I slipped comfortably into reflecting on the things I had been denied because of my disability, considering all the ways that it had held me back. It was such an easy path to fall back into, feeling the disappointment of all I had lost.

But Alan’s conviction ministered to my soul. I never wanted to neglect the power of my salvation, which far surpassed every feeling of disappointment. The creator of the universe reached through my sinful rebellion because of sin and called me out of death into life. He set his covenantal love upon me. Jesus died as an innocent man on the cross, satisfying all of God’s wrath for me, to pay a debt I could never afford.

And now I am eternally God’s. I will live in his presence and enjoy him forever. This disability will end, and my body will be perfected.

That gain should never be diminished for it can withstand anything.

Remembering the beauty of my salvation realigns what I find to be foundational. In fact, it just did. Just by typing out what I have gained because of Jesus, I am reminded me of the peace and assurance it brings me, placing my affections where I want them to be.

Even after receiving the right hearing aids so he could confidently engage in his business and interact in conversation, Alan did not change his perspective on what was the most important. He made a point to tell me how much the hearing aids transformed his life, “but not as much as Jesus had.”

No physical gain or suffering loss can compete with the significance of knowing Jesus. I am thankful for Alan’s ministry to me.

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