Now It Can Be Told ...

Now It Can Be Told...

Guess what my biggest problem is? No, that's not it. No, that's not it. Not that either...no, no...so ENOUGH ALREADY! Sheesh.

No, my biggest problem is that ever since junior high school I've had a stutter. (Actually, you don't "have" a stutter. You "are" a stutterer. Which is quite a coincidence, because so am I.)

Writers can be stutterers, of course, and nobody knows it. But I'm tired of my readers not knowing. I'm tired of the lies. I'm not going to stay in the closet any longer (mainly because people used to say, "Do you hear that funny noise coming from the closet? I think somebody's stuttering in there.")

My "problem" crops up without warning, sometimes as a stammer, sometimes as a complete wall of silence, like I just swallowed something big...like a car.

Recently our staff was calling subscribers for contributions to our ministry. We were hoping to start the year with a clean fiscal slate, and I was telling folks that we were trying to retire our debt of $65,000.

Well, one woman answered in a friendly voice, and I said: "We're calling our subscribers tonight because we're trying to retire...."

That's when I got stuck. I couldn't say the next word. My tongue wouldn't work until the woman, after a pause, said, "Aren't we all."

Through the years I have learned to cope with my handicap and, more important, have developed a list of helpful hints for the non-stutterer.

When talking with someone who is stuck on a word, eyes fluttering, stomach muscles tightening, face turning purple from the effort to speak:

· DON'T look at your watch.

· DON'T look at your calendar.

· DON'T fidget, sigh impatiently, and say, "I'd like to buy a vowel."

· DON'T glance over your shoulder looking for help. If people see you with a stutterer, they usually run in the other direction. Sympathetic friends will, however, cancel your appointments for the rest of the day.

· DON'T try to guess the word. It never works. A couple of years ago I was trying to tell a waiter that my chicken tasted like rubber. I got stuck on the first syllable of "rubber," however, and after awhile the waiter tried to take a stab at it. He guessed "rhubarb."

· DON'T start quietly singing to yourself the words to "Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious." We hate that song.

· And whatever you do, DON'T roll your eyes in exasperation. You might be talking to one of those new militant stutterers who'll make an example of you by deliberately filling the next sentence with words like "responsibility," "politicization," and "boxer shorts."

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

It was during the andante movement of Bottesini's "Double-bass Concerto in F-sharp Minor." The young Polish prodigy Slawomir Grenda had just concluded a blistering passage and was beginning to coax the most delicate triplets from his instrument.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

We were at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., having somehow finagled free tickets for a performance of the National Symphony Orchestra. Seventh row center. Rich-people seats. Reach-out-and-touch-someone close. Incredible view. Unbelievable music.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

It was the first time we had taken the children, and we tried to anticipate their weariness of staying put for two hours. We brought paper and markers to q-u-i-e-t-l-y occupy their minds and hands. It's working, I thought, five minutes after the allegro moderato, when our younger daughter drew a large heart.

Unfortunately, she then proceeded to color it in with one of those big magic markers.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

It was like a spotlight had been aimed directly at us, picking us out of the 3,000 other people in the majestic, acoustically sensitive Concert Hall. The listeners closest to us all turned in unison, scowling at my formerly precious 6-year-old.

The soloist punctuated an eighth note with a jerky glance toward us. Conductor Randall Craig Fleischer, gifted musician in his own right, frantically searched the sheet music, no doubt asking himself, "So where does it say the kid with the marker comes in?"

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

What to do? My mind raced. Her mother was closer to her, but was NOT grabbing the marker away. Instead she seemed to be merely suggesting that Kate draw a little quieter, which she was definitely NOT doing.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Action was called for. Immediate action. I had to take control. I had to exercise the fatherly skills that now faced the toughest of tests.

So bravely, boldly, I did the only thing I could do. I put my face into my hands, and shook my head hopelessly from side to side.

The finale saved us, however, as the music rose and drowned out our little terrorist., and the stares finally turned away.

Intermission mercifully arrived, and the audience observed a family of four hurrying to the rear of the hall. Some probably noticed that one child proudly carried a drawing of what appeared to be a large, red heart. It was completely colored in.

Ed Spivey Jr. is art director of Sojourners.