by Donald Hancock

Created on: June 18, 2010

Music and the Tender Touch

I worked as a Chaplain with the mentally disabled for twenty one years before my retirement. I found my own unique niche in this area of the Pastoral Ministry. This ministry became even more rewarding as I began to specialize in work with those who were severely and profoundly retarded (as we referred to them in those days).

In relating to those “parishioners” who were physically adults but were, mentally and socially, like 2, 3, and 4 year olds, I found that music and a tender touch of the hands, a kind look in the eyes, and a word with love in it could unlock doors into worlds of new beginnings.

To begin with, a ukulele became as much a part of “me” when I was with the “residents” (as we called them), as my body and my voice. It was in constant use. I spoke with them as often through spontaneous singing as I did through talking. That seemed to get through to them better than regular conversation. A typical example was a thirteen year old girl who acted like a cute, lovable, severely withdrawn four year old. I will call her Betty, though that is not her real name.

I approach her quietly, gently because it is our first meeting. I do not know if she will run or strike out at me or bite herself. She sits in a chair as I move closer. Her head is downcast but her eyes are turned up, watching me suspiciously. I am quietly singing as I bridge the distance. “Betty Betty hello Betty”. I sing gently as I strum the “Uke”. I squat down in front of her as I sing. So far, so good.

“I'm the Chaplain” I say, and then I sing, “Betty's wearing a pretty dress, Betty's wearing a pretty dress. Yes she is!” She still looks with a blank, suspicious stare – no smile and not any change of emotional expression. “Would you like to hear a song?”I say, and sing the first line of the very simple song, “Jesus loves me”. Still there is nothing. I touch her hair gently, cautiously, lest I lose the little ground that I might have gained thus far. (Such touching might be frowned upon in this day of political correctness, but it was acceptable in those days).

“Betty has pretty eyes. Betty has pretty hair. Betty is a sweet girl, yes she is!” Now I am close enough to be vulnerable to a scratch on the face or a poke in the eye. Still there is no reaction, or do her eyes sparkle just a little?

All of a sudden, with no warning, Betty lurches forward, both little arms outstretched, wrapping them around my shoulders. Now there is a definite smile on her face, a tear in my eye.

The next time I saw Betty she was still suspicious, downcast, slow to respond. But not as much as before. I went through a similar ritual and this time Betty even reached out and strummed my Ukulele at my invitation.

So, I was getting somewhere with Betty. You might say, “But what difference will such a little thing like that make?” I must answer, “Quite a lot to Betty, and quite a lot to me. And, I think, quite a lot to you, if Betty were your little girl.”

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