The Helen Keller Art Show

The Helen Keller Art show is in full swing. The center is adorned in art. Tactile pieces. Colorful artwork. Sculptures.

The artists are mostly students from the Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind. One of the nation’s oldest institutions.

“THAT ONE’S MINE!” shouts a young, blind artist. She is excitedly tapping a painting. “IT’S A FLOWER!”

“That’s a beautiful piece,” I reply. “Why did you choose a flower?”

“Because God loves flowers.”

And I am starting to have flashbacks.

Namely, because a few years ago, I attended the Helen Keller show. Before the show I met a little girl in the art gallery. She was using a pink wheelchair. A seatbelt around her tiny waist. Her eyes did not look at me, they looked through me.

“Hi,” said the cheerful girl. “My name’s Henrietta, what’s yours?”

So I told her.

We shook hands. And we talked. Henrietta told me about her artwork. She told me about her mitochondrial disease. And her progressive blindness.

She said she’d spent most of her life living in hospitals. Most of her birthdays. Most holidays. Her life had been lived out in hospitals.

“That’s why I’m going to start my own charity someday,” she said.

“What will your charity be about?” I said.

“I’m going to get toys donated from kids, and then I’m going to give all those toys to children trapped in hospitals, all over America. That way they have something to play with, and so they know someone cares about them. Because in a hospital, you sometimes feel like you’re all alone. But you’re not.”

After our brief conversation, I watched Henrietta wheel up to the stage to receive an award for her artwork.

When the ceremony was over, we were in the lobby, talking again. And I marveled at this child who had come so close to dying, and still remained optimistic enough to make Pollyanna look like a Russian poet.

“You’re a fearless girl,” I said.

“No,” she replied. “I’m not fearless. I’m scared to death. What I am is brave.”

“What’s the difference?”

“An afraid person can be brave.”

We became friends after that. She was an exceptional kid. Her mitochondrial illness progressed, but so did her bravery.

And on the day she passed, I collapsed in a chair and cried and wondered how God could be so unbelievably indifferent to the human race.

But today, I am realizing that I was wrong about God. For as I stand looking at the portrait of a majestic flower, another blind artist has a message for me.

“Henrietta did not die,” the girl says with a bright laugh. “God picked a flower.”