My Hero, Clifford

I met Clifford in 1993, shortly after I had moved to the mountains of North Carolina to assume the role of associate pastor at a large downtown church. Clifford was a member of a class for special needs adults that met each Sunday. Part of my role was to oversee the education ministry, so I visited this class regularly. It was the highlight of my morning.

As I began to learn more about Clifford, I found out that he worked three jobs: at two fast food establishments as well as a Christian camp. He commuted everywhere on a moped that friends helped him procure. And as he rode he listened to a boom box which was hung around his neck by a shoestring. Moreover, he played “hind catcher” on a church softball team, which calls to mind this conversation.

“I got a hit in our last game.“

“Awesome! Tell me about it.“

“I hit the ball all the way over the confession stand.“

“So, did you say, ‘bless me father for I have fouled?’”

A smile broke out on his face, and he began to laugh in his inimitable fashion, from deep within.

Cliff was also a proud Special Olympics competitor. He actually won a trip to the nationals as the local bocce ball champ. He loved to tell that story, and I enjoyed listening to it - more than once.

Sadly, a couple of years later, Clifford’s story took an ugly turn. He had been convinced by a quack surgeon that he needed to have a hole drilled at the base of his skull in order to help his motor function. During his first night in recovery, he developed a brain bleed and nearly died, and wound up spending weeks in a rehab facility.

When he was finally released from rehab, we discovered that he had lost much of his motor function, and was suffering from a severe speech impediment. He could no longer ride his moped nor work, but, in true Clifford fashion, he persevered. He even managed to continue living on his own in subsidized housing. It would have killed him to have to move into a group home and be treated like an invalid.

Without his moped, Cliff found another means of getting to wherever he wanted. He memorized the local transit schedule, and was daily outside waiting for a ride to and from wherever. His indomitable spirit was an encouragement to all his many friends. Despite his physical limitations, Cliff got around, with the assistance of a trekking pole and ankle brace. He was easy to spot as he walked the streets of our cozy downtown: backpack filled with who knows what, a lanyard around his neck with his house key and sundry trinkets, baseball cap, and his trusted companion, his trekking pole.

My fondest memory of Cliff is our regular lunches together. He loved Chinese, and could hold his own at a buffet, especially if there was an ample supply of fried rice and General Tso’s chicken. He would regularly phone me and offer to let me pick him up and take him to lunch. We dined with a vengeance. I was proud to help him load and carry each plate he filled. And, despite his speech limitations, we had some very interesting conversations over beef and broccoli.

A number of years ago I moved away, and I still miss my time hanging with Clifford. I’ve never known anyone so resilient and resolute. Clifford was undeterred by any of life’s circumstances, no matter what kind of pitch came at him from the mound. We could all learn from his example.

I miss you, my friend.