Page 43 of The Voice We Find

She points to the stage discreetly. “Portia is Tyler’s mom?”

I nod. “You know her?”

She makes a small, indeterminable sound in the back of her throat.

“...for many deaf and hard of hearing people, what you just saw on this stage is a reenactment of what they deal with on a daily basis, only in reverse. Without a hearing interpreter trained in ASL to help bridge the gap between the hearing and the non-hearing, our worlds remain segregated. Our conversations remain isolated. And for so many wonderful deaf and hard of hearing members in our community, that means they may never know the saving love and grace of the gospel,” Portia says with fervor. “In fact, studies show that ninety-eight percent of the deaf and hard-of-hearing community has never been shown the story of Jesus in their native, visual language of ASL. As the wife of a deaf husband and mother of a deaf son who both use ASL as their primary form of communication, we are passionate about helping our hard-of-hearing friends findhope in a lonely world. We are a family committed to the outreach of inclusive communication.” Portia smiles broadly. “Which is why we’re starting an ASL class at our community theater in September. If you’re interested in learning more about the needs and benefits of interpretation and this beautiful visual language, then please meet us at the kiosk right after the service. And now, let’s add some interpretation to Tyler and Gabby’s conversation.”

The spotlight on the teens flicks on again, and the two start over. Portia interprets for both teens, and the audience responds almost immediately by laughing in all the right places. Gabby is telling Tyler a hilarious story about a summer camp prank gone awry while Tyler adds his own commentary to the mix. The church is roaring, which easily proves Portia’s point. I have zero doubt there will be a long line at her kiosk today. I also have no doubt that Gabby will be the most zealous recruiter among them.

The three receive a standing ovation when they take a bow and are joined once again by Pastor Kreissig, who does a final push for the ASL classes at the Twilight Theater. And then I see the exact moment when Portia pauses at Sophie’s presence in the audience. There’s a story there for sure. If we weren’t so close to the front, I’d ask Sophie about it right now. But instead, we’re asked to settle in for the next thirty-eight minutes while Pastor Kreissig walks us through the parable of the lost sheep.

Growing up, this parable was akin to a bedtime story. There’s hardly a fresh take left when it comes to a Good Shepherd who leaves behind the ninety-nine to chase after the one, and yet I’m growing increasingly more agitated the longer this manipulative tale draws out.

My parents died chasing after the elusive one.

A little over two and a half years ago, a regular, everyday couple from Petaluma, California, were moved by a missionary’s PowerPoint talk at their church exposing a need in rural India where school buildings were in high demand and skilled construction workers were few. They asked if I’d go with them, encouraging me to spend some intentional time with my teenage sister and serve “the least ofthese” together, the way we’d done in years past as a family of four. For a myriad of reasons, I turned them down and wished them well on their adventure, never knowing how many times I’d replay that decision in the days, weeks, months, years to come.

Never knowing how deep of a hole regret could dig.

They left home as soon as Gabby completed her eighth grade year, in hopes the trip would grow my sister’s faith and teach her how everyday people can make an extraordinary difference in the world. Yet there was nothing extraordinary about the deaths my parents died in an overcrowded train car that slid off the tracks or the trauma that will haunt my sister forever.

People often comment on my sister’s remarkable resilience, on her unwavering courage and selfless love for others amidst her own painful past. And it’s true. All of it and then some. My sister has long been the bravest person I know. But it’s the faith she claims as the source of such strength that I can no longer pretend to share. Not even for her.

Sophie shifts to lean forward in her seat, her gaze hyper-focused on Pastor Kreissig as he goes in for the kill shot. “If you identify with the lost sheep I’ve just described, please believe there is no place too far, too hopeless, too dark, too sinful, too apathetic, too unreachable for your Good Shepard to find you. He’s already called you chosen; the question is, will you choose Him?”

I watch a lone tear slide down Sophie’s cheek and stain the soft pink fabric of her dress as she follows the prompts to bow her head and close her eyes. And it’s in those quiet, isolating moments that follow, when she raises her hand to go up for prayer, that I realize how truly alone I really am.

11

Sophie

I’m on my feet as soon as the service ends, making my way to the prayer corner Pastor Kreissig pointed out at the close of his sermon. A kind lady in a floral top and white cropped pants is there to greet me, clasping my hands and asking if I’d like prayer for anything specific. “I don’t really know,” I admit. “I’ve never asked for prayer before, but there’s been a lot of big changes in my life lately, and I think I’ve been a wandering sheep for a while now. And I don’t want to be one anymore.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she assures me through a teary smile. “That’s one of the best prayers we can ever pray.”

The kind woman—Alisha—asks me several questions and genuinely seems to care about my answers. Soon, we’ve bowed our heads in prayer, and I feel an unmistakable sense of rightness. The kind that seems to echo through my heart with a sense of belonging I’ve always been searching for.

I’ve come close to finding it in theater and maybe even with certain friend groups. But today felt like a reminder of something I’ve only ever grazed the surface of. It felt like a homecoming.

After we sayamen, Alisha reminds me to drop my information card off at the welcome kiosk and proceeds to give me a big hug. “You weren’t here by accident today, Sophie. God has a plan for your life.”

It’s perhaps one of the most beautiful sentiments a stranger has ever spoken to me. As I slowly walk back to the second row to collect my things in a rapidly emptying auditorium, I’m surprised to find August waiting at the end of the main aisle near the back, my purse and phone in his possession.

I make my way to him.

“Hey.” I smile, marveling at the swell of happiness I feel at the sight of him.

“Hey.” He barely meets my gaze as he hands me my belongings. “You okay?”

“Better than okay. Today was...” I bite my bottom lip, trying to find the words. “Exactly what I needed. It felt like Pastor Kreissig was speaking directly to me.” I laugh, though it feels more like an outburst of delight. “I’m so glad your sister invited me. I can’t wait to come back again next week.”

After a beat of silence, he says, “I’m happy for you.”

He moves to open the lobby doors, but I grasp for his elbow and pull him back. “Wait, do you know where Gabby is? I want to tell her what an awesome job she did today.”

His heated gaze studies the place my fingers hold, rising slowly up the length of my forearm. And something about the familiarity of our closeness triggers a muscle memory response I wasn’t sure existed before now. On instinct, I reach for his left wrist and gently rotate it the same way I’ve done a dozen times in order to assess the injury on his palm. When he flinches at my touch, I note the crease in his brow. “You’re not in any new pain, are you?” I trace the edge of his bandage with my fingertip, pressing the pinked skin for any hidden signs of infection. But everything appears to be healthy. Healing.

“I’m fine, Sophie.” He closes his fist and drops it to his side. “Gabby went this way.”

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