To the world, all he can do is suffer. But in God’s eyes, Albert still has a mission to fulfill and much to teach.

Albert rarely speaks—only enough to prevent us from saying he can’t speak anymore.

I sat with Albert after his liquid snack and told him I was Cody, a new applicant. I thought I was in way over my head in attempting this visit, and I thought we would not be able to communicate.

So I sat and smiled at him wondering what to do next. The staff worker who fed Albert his snack suggested I play the bongo for him as Albert had known how to play drums.

Thanking God for an answer to my unspoken question, I used my gift of drumming and started playing for Albert.

To my amazement, I could see he was enjoying it. With the eyes of love, I saw a smile on his face, interest in his eyes, and an overall expression of engagement. So I kept playing, drumming various different beats.

After my last slap of a particularly complex beat, Albert said, "Very good."

I knew he was deeply moved, so much so that he had decided it was worth the struggle to form those two words. Realizing that it probably took more effort on his part to form those words than it did for me to play that complex beat, I, too, was deeply moved.

So I continued to play, and we gave Albert a plastic green spatula which he used to tap on the table of his wheelchair.

I moved the bongo to his spatula, which he then hit with a fast but fairly steady beat. The bongo has two drumheads so Albert tapped on one while I used the fingers on my left hand to tap the other. Not only were we able to communicate with each other, but we were making music together.

I had thought I could only do things to or for Albert. Never did it occur to me we could do something together.

Albert eventually lifted the spatula to head level which I took to mean, "I’m done drumming; you play now."

I still saw a smile on his face, interest in his eyes, and an overall expression of engagement with the drum. So I kept playing by myself or with Albert depending on whether he had the spatula at head or table level.

This went on for a while, and we both thoroughly enjoyed it.

To my surprise I realized Albert still has desires, for suddenly, he said, "Sing."

My heart sank. Though I was having a lot of fun, the last thing I wanted to do was sing. Thankfully, at this point my desire to do anything for Albert trumped my reluctance to sing.

"Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" was the only song that came to mind. So, while drumming, I sang that children’s song. Then, since Albert was still very involved and engaged, I sang nonsense sounds.

Suddenly, with spatula in hand Albert burst out with a spoken "La-la-la-la-la-la-la." (I can still remember the exact number of "la’s" he said.) I added a "fa" before the "la’s" and put a beat to it. Albert and I had written a song!

Granted it was even simpler than "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" but to me it sounded more beautiful than Handel’s Messiah.

Why? I saw a person I hadn’t seen before. I saw a person who loved and could be loved—the fruit of 56 years of living in this community of love. And I saw the fruits and truth of the culture of life and the evil behind euthanasia and assisted suicide.

Albert held onto that plastic green spatula for the rest of the night. And I will be holding onto an encounter with truth for the rest of my life.