Speaking kindness

A couple walked into a BSL Level one class. Perhaps they were surprised to find themselves there. Learning BSL had not been an ambition of theirs. It had never occurred to them. Until a member of their church was told she would lose her hearing. That person was me.

My first experience of deafness in church happened before I went deaf and, though I didn’t know it at the time, was to set a pattern for my future.

From the start, I am fortunate to have had my hearing loss supported, and that extends to different churches I’ve been to.

That’s not to say it’s always easy, but I do find that people are nice.

When I went deaf overnight in surgery, it was terrifying. My new realisation of silence scared me. Over time, I gained confidence to take silence from my house into the world. First stop? Church.

The church I attended had open participation from the congregation. People would stand by their chair, and share a prayer or a Bible reading or a song choice.

When I was able to return to church, my ability to hear was not the only thing that had changed. Now, anyone who wanted to share would no longer stand by their seat, they would go to the front. Why? So that I, sitting on the front row, could see them, and try to lipread. I say ‘try to’ because my lipreading was not – and still isn’t – infallible, but I certainly received more than I would have done had people stayed sitting behind me.

People cared. Life went on.

I’m in a service that uses the Book of Common Worship. The lady beside me shares her book with me, pointing to where we are in the service, so I can follow.

When she pointed, she looked at me and smiled. Every time.

A preacher comes to speak at church. We talk afterwards. The next time he comes, he hands me something before the service begins. I don’t know what it is. It’s his sermon notes, typed out for me, so I can easily follow what he says.

He’s done the same ever since, and he is not the only one. It has become a regular thing for me to receive sermon notes.

I attend New Wine. It’s a big thing for me to do; I haven’t attended any large Christian events since the day I couldn’t hear anymore.

My sign language is rudimentary at best. I know I’ll need to try and understand the sign language interpreters at New Wine. I pray I’ll be able to understand them. And God says ‘yes’. I understand them.

God is with me in the silence.

“Where would be best for you to sit?” I’m asked as I walk into a smallish meeting room in a church. A few people are already seated. “There,” I say apologetically, pointing to a chair someone is sitting in. The seat is right in front of the window, meaning the light will throw anyone sitting there into shadow. And I’m the only person in the room I don’t need to see.

It is not unusual for me to rearrange a meeting room, nor is it unusual for people to move for me. I’ve never had anyone resist.

I thumb through the hymn book, trying to find number 40. I saw the number announced. I remember the song and yet, when we stand to sing (or sign in my case), the person leading from the front does not seem to be singing that song. Nor does anyone else. Their lips are not following the words. “What number are we singing?” I ask the man next to me. “14”. Seeing my ‘40’, he hands me his open book. Taking my book for himself, he flicks from 40 to 14.

That scenario has happened many times.

A leader says we will be having a time of quiet during the service. I bow my head. We all bow our heads. Everyone raises their head: except me. I don’t realise that the ‘time of quiet’ has finished. The person beside me gently nudges me, letting me know.

That one’s happened many times, too.

I’m at a service in the Deaf Church. I am so thankful for how welcome I’ve been made. I’m different here, too, you see. I lost my hearing; I wasn’t born deaf. Sign Language is not my first language. After the service, the pastor asks if I’ll preach next time. “My sign language is not good enough,” I sign back. He smiles; “it’s fine”.

I stand up and share in BSL. My sign language is still not good enough, though God makes it better than it is. The congregation nods, and laughs (with me not at me!), and engages. Afterwards, we drink tea and discuss the topic further.

I know I’m fortunate that the times of being sidelined because I can’t hear are a minority for me. Yes, I still have struggles to understand and communicate, but those times don’t dominate.

Welcome: that is my experience of deafness in church.

Hearing Church welcoming and including someone who can’t hear.

Deaf Church welcoming and including someone who can talk.

I’m thankful for each person encompassed in that welcome.

‘Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear’ said Mark Twain.

I’m deaf, and I hear the language of kindness. It comes my way time and time again.

People around me echoing God’s heart.

How precious is Your loving kindness, O God!

Psalm 36:7

About the author

Emily Owen is an award-winning author and speaker, with several books to her name. She lost her hearing overnight aged 21 and has had numerous surgeries.  Emily knows what it is to be broken, and she knows what it is to meet God there.

You can visit her website at this link.

Emily Owen is a slender white lady with a short dark bob and glasses, seated in a portrait studio and smiling.