THE SOLO
                        by Barbara Walker

     From the Editor: Barbara Walker is a dedicated Federationist
and a thoughtful, loving mother of two. She frequently writes of
her experience as a blind person for the NFB's Kernel Series of
paperbacks. The following story appeared in the latest of these
books, The Journey. It begins with Dr. Jernigan's introduction.
Here it is:
     For all of us, life is full of choices. A frequent choice
those of us who are blind face is whether to accept more help
than we really need (thus furthering misconceptions which exist
about us) or to refuse such help and risk creating a scene or
causing embarrassment to a valued colleague. Here Barbara Walker
describes just such a situation:
     It is often hard to know where to draw the line between
acceptance of what is and the necessity to take a stand for
change. And for me, mostly this struggle has been played out in
little things. One such instance involved my singing a solo in
church.
     For quite some time, the choir director at my church had
been asking me to sing a solo. She said people had approached her
wanting me to do that, and wanting her to encourage me, since
they knew I wouldn't be likely to request the privilege when
opportunities were given to do so. I had finally agreed to invite
my sister to come and sing a duet with me, but it became obvious
that our church schedules were such that it might be a long time
before that would be workable. The director's next request was
that I choose something to sing and perhaps a member of the choir
to sing with, and ask an accompanist to play if I preferred not
to play my guitar. 
     All of those seemed like piece-of-cake kinds of things to
her, I'm sure. But for me, a person whose ministry through music
is not an assertive one, those suggestions sounded unthinkable.
Assuming I had the nerve to approach another choir member to sing
with me (which I didn't), how would the person respond? 
     Also I learn music by hearing and memorizing it. I don't do
solos and don't have a storehouse of options to present to a
potential accompanist. As I stood before the director in the
presence of a friend with whom I ride to choir, I felt the
familiar longing to be assertive struggling with the urge to run
to some place where I could be inconspicuous. 
     The visible result of that struggle was a period of silence
followed by an explanation to her of the situation as I saw it. I
wanted very much to be able to thank her for her suggestions and
follow them through. But the mere thought of doing that
constricted my throat, weakened my knees, and sent my tongue
between my teeth to stifle their chattering. Ultimately I
reminded her that I was not a soloist requesting an opportunity
to perform, but a servant shyly preparing to answer a call to
minister. The potential duet discussed that night also fell
through due to scheduling difficulties.
     Shortly after that I received a call from the director
asking if I would sing a short portion of an upcoming anthem as a
solo. Knowing that, although it was a familiar hymn tune, the
lyrics were different, I said I would be glad to do it but would
need someone to read the words to me before we practiced it. I
said I would bring my Braille `n Speak for that purpose.
     During practice, when it came time to work on that anthem,
she announced that I would be singing the first verse. She had
all of the women sing it through one time, and I entered the
words into my Braille 'n Speak as they sang. There was one part I
didn't understand, so I asked for clarification before singing it
myself as she had requested. Her response both surprised and
humiliated me. "Oh, just sing the words you know, or sing la la
la. They'll love whatever you do, and no one will know if you're
singing what's written or not."
     There it was again--the old "anything you do will be
wonderful, Honey" routine. Suddenly the most surprising thing to
me was why I still, after all these years, found it catching me
off guard. I sat for a moment in the silence of belittlement,
thinking thoughts of the obvious: "She would know. The choir
would know. God would know." And as the silence seemed to be
melting into the rustling of papers and shifting of weight on
chairs, I heard my voice from somewhere saying, "I would know."
     With the barely audible prompting of a fellow choir member
who has often responded to my real requests for her assistance
rather than her imaginings of what I might need, I rather feebly
sang my renewed commitment to love and serve Jesus. Before
leaving that night, the director, the accompanist, and I agreed
to meet in the sanctuary on Sunday morning prior to the service
to practice with the microphone.
     When I arrived in the sanctuary on Sunday, the director was
talking to the sound control person. She announced to me that he
would place a microphone on a stand and someone would assist me
to it and stand by me while I sang. I felt again the grip of
incredulity. For years I had been processing and recessing with
the choir, not to mention coming in and out of the choir loft and
chancel area for various other purposes. 
     Struggling to keep my composure, I found myself asking the
kind, bubbly, victim of society's insistence that I be cared for-
-this choir director whose spirit and freedom to be uninhibited I
receive as gifts to cherish--questions which sounded harsh and
unrelenting. 
     "Do you think of me as an adult? Why is it necessary that I
use the microphone differently from the way others have used it?
What is it that causes people to cast reality and experience to
the wind and insist that everything be different when working
with a blind person?" At once, her breezy confidence turned into
wind-swept confusion. We were swirling toward a trap of
absurdity--she wanting to protect me, I wanting to educate her,
both wanting to serve Jesus.
     As each of us shared her concerns with the other, we came to
terms with the situation. Since only the women were singing that
day, I agreed to sit in the front rather than in my usual place
in the second row. The standing microphone would be in front of
me. Pride wanted me to insist that I sit in my usual row and walk
down to the microphone. Knowledge said others who prefer not to
be conspicuous have sat by the microphone or had it passed to
them where they were seated. Reason suggested I accept the plan.
Wisdom concurred, reminding me I was there to minister, not to
win a contest of wills.
     At home after the service, I discussed the situation with my
children. They were both glad I hadn't allowed the original
scenario to prevail. John, my eight-year-old, said it wouldn't
have been right. Marsha, my ten-year-old, elaborated. "I would
have been embarrassed," she said, "not because anyone should be
ashamed to get help if it's needed, but because you wouldn't need
that help and you and we would know it." She felt that for me to
accept that option would have been to deny progress. 
     I recalled the fierce independence of their deceased father,
who had treated his blindness as a characteristic which, although
causing some inconvenience, would not have its existence used as
a basis for buying into society's notion that it should
debilitate him. I also thought of the tens of thousands of us in
the National Federation of the Blind who daily deal with
struggles such as this one. I hoped we had all taken a small step
forward.
     Since that day I have sung two additional short solos. One
was at a Sunday evening service, at which I walked to the
microphone from a place in the congregation and returned to my
seat during the remainder of the song. The other occasion was
during a regular service, and the choir director previously
mentioned was again in charge. This time I stayed in my usual
place and was handed the mike just prior to my solo. There was no
discussion, no confusion, no trouble at all.
     The message I sang that day was: "God of many names,
gathered into one, in your glory come and meet us, moving,
endlessly becoming." And as it happened within me and within the
Trinity Church choir director, it happens for all of us. We are
all "moving, endlessly becoming," and that is a marvelous source
of hope.