Introducing Noel Richardson, 31 years old, CEO of a non-profit organization, hazel eyes, 6'3", 210 pounds, and deaf.
I’m here for the deaf ministry, I signed, hoping the man understood me.
As if summons, an elderly usher appeared dressed in a faded black suit, white gloves, and a purple bow tie. After bowing like a butler, he did an about face. I imagined his heels clicked as he walked away. I took that as my cue to follow. Entering the sanctuary, the size overpowered me. It was spacious with purple cushions and eye-catching crystal chandeliers, sparkling like night stars.
Deep-purple carpet was so plush, I felt guilty for wearing shoes. Numerous ushers patrolled three aisles as if they were programmable toy soldiers. Others were sprinkled throughout the sanctuary.
I grimaced as my escort guided me to my seat. Why did visitors always have to be paraded to the front line? I didn’t have to guess that the four roped-off pews were the designated deaf area. Thanking the usher, I shook off my black cashmere coat and draped it over my arm. Scooting inside the pew, I laid it and my Bible down.
After nodding to those already there, I sat and bowed my head. “Lord, I thank You for leading me to this place, and blessing me through the years. Lord, please tell me if this is where you want me to be, Amen.” Opening my eyes, I stretched my legs and wondered if my comrades were members or fellow curious visitors.
Flexing my muscle, I crossed my arms, and waited for the show to begin. I have to be honest. I wasn’t expecting to be impressed because everyone who called themselves interpreters weren’t polished nor did they enjoyed the communication. It was a job, a well-paid one at that. As a first-time visitor, I made note of my surroundings. Despite the grandeur, it had a cozy feel.
The next thing that caught my eyes were the people crammed into a three-level stadium style seating--the choir several feet behind the podium. Then two women who appeared in the doorway stole my attention.
From a distance, neither was bad looking. The taller one was dressed to showcase her endowment, and I admired her bountiful assets. Her hair was straight and poured over her shoulders as a silver-colored dress clutched her body. Shimmer stockings hinted of tone legs. Her shoes' heels were tall and thick.
The other woman--the shorter one--seemed to possess a flair for creativity. She snatched my attention and challenged me to look away if I could. That's when I noticed her choice of colors. I didn't know red and brown matched. I smirked at the red scarf that attempted to restrain rebellious curls. Red boots raced and hid under a brown leather skirt. A short-waist brown leather jacket dared a red collar and red-patch work on the elbows. If nothing else, her attire showed she had confidence.
I closed my eyes to remind myself where I sat. Yes, I was in church, but God created men as visual beings to appreciate His handiwork. A beautiful woman was worth admiring. I inhaled a deep, measured breath.
The pair chatted as they walked, throwing air kisses, shaking hands, and returning waves to church members. Eventually they approached the roped-off pews and stopped. Briefly, they made eye contact with the group as they seemed to take a head count. The tall sister’s eyes met mine a second and third time.
Finally I looked away, thinking, I'm trying to behave. I did come for the Word not a woman. In sync, they sat in folding chairs facing us. Okay, show me what ya got, I smirked.
Unfortunately the endowed interpreter did. She yawned wide enough for a dental exam as her eyes darted around the sanctuary. Was she bored already? I wondered. That was not a good sign. So I focused on the shorter "express-yourself" woman as she bowed her head in prayer. The choir stood, opened their mouths, and swayed to sounds that prohibited to one of my five senses. I could feel the powerful vibrations under my feet. My heart pounded in harmony. Masterfully, that interpreter moved her fingers,telling me a story that dared my eyes to blink or turn away.
2007 Mr. Romance Finalist Fred Williams
PROLOGUE
On Thanksgiving Day, November 27th at nine-thirty in the morning, I fell in love. It was swift and irrevocable. Common sense was hopeless. Without warning or fanfare, I had succumbed to Mackenzie Norton’s allure. Love is such a strange emotion—never enough time to savor all the sweet moments. It’s hindsight now that I’ve lost her.
Sometimes the memories taunt me, other times they provide comfort. When my eyes close, Mackenzie appears. Her brown eyes twinkled, causing a sexy glow to spread across her face. Her hypnotic trance released strong vibes that were undeniable. She was such a puzzle, allowing me the pleasure of seeing her pieces fit. Inside the church walls, she was sober. With me, her mischievous antics would issue challenges.
Mackenzie. The way she commanded her body possessed my senses. Thank you, God, for my eyes to see. With deliberate movements, Mackenzie’s hands beckoned to me, sprinkling magic along the way. Long slender arms danced with the grace of a swan.
For initial five-seconds I laid eyes on her, I had dismissed her until she demanded my attention without her trying. I quickly withdrew my opinion that she wasn’t a head-turner. A gentle spirit tempered her powerful personality.
Yes, Mackenzie’s magnetism was undeniable. She became my teacher, and I a willing student. I chuckle at the memories. At first, we could’ve spoken, but we enjoyed the silent communication.
Mackenzie had the most enchanting smile. Ah! Did I mention her lips? They were my worst distraction and her best assets—shapely and full in a natural pout. They moved like a musician manipulating his instruments. Have I mentioned she was feisty and committed to her convictions?
Glistening skin reminded me of wet brown sugar—my attraction. A head of messy curls was her crowning glory. On any other woman, the look would’ve been scary. Mackenzie made it stylish as it cuddled her oval face.
Whoever dared utter that stupid saying, men aren’t perfect? Well, they hadn’t seen a woman named Mackenzie. The compact five-feet-four-inch woman was perfect.
During our quiet time, we didn’t blink twice as we mouthed our promises to each other. We honored each word with sincerity and care, vowing not to break one. It happened anyway. Mackenzie was to blame, or maybe it was I.
One evening we indulged in quietness. Watching the sunset at a nearly deserted playground, I spoke aloud a wish as I nudged Mackenzie on a swing. “I miss dancing. More than anything I wish we could dance the night away.”
Mackenzie dug her heels into the ground, halting the swing. Turning around, she finger-kissed the sadness, disappointment, and pain out of my eyes. “I promise, Noel, one day we’ll dance.”
I didn’t hear her, but I knew she whispered because she always touched me when she did. Now our chance will never come. I hate broken promises. At least God is dependable with His promises.
It had nothing to do with me being one of twenty-eight million Americans classified as oral deaf, Deaf, or hearing-impaired. Sixteen years earlier, doctors delivered the tragic news to my parents, family, and friends. I had loss hearing. They were in shock. My mother cried. My dad temporarily withdrew, lacking the skills to communicate with me. My youngest brother, Caleb, thought I had become a robot, but my older brother, Pierce, embraced my new world and me. His compassion helped to guide the Richardsons to a place of mental and physical recovery.
Therefore after all the ENT doctors’ testing, surgery, and the audiologists’ retesting were done, I was labeled as “late deafened adult” that meant I wasn’t part of the “Deaf culture” who fought to remain Deaf until they died. Hierarchy existed within the Deaf culture. So the final song I heard was Donna Summer’s Last Dance. I guess it truly was my rhythmic groove.
Well, the pity party is officially over. I’ve moved on. For me, like many others, external influences were the culprit for my deafness, not genetic flaws or pregnancy complications. I’m lucky; no, I’m blessed to be alive, unlike Keith Morrow. His parents couldn’t cope with losing their only child in a freak explosion near a fireworks plant.
Anyway, I appreciate interpreters, and grew accustomed to them signing at events, but it was Mackenzie’s contagious enthusiasm that sucked me into a storm, whirling me into the eye of the hurricane. Never had I witnessed an interpreter wrapped up in so much pleasure and total involvement in communicating what was happening around me.
Not only did I see and feel; Mackenzie made me believe I could hear the choir’s rendition of My Life Is in Your Hands, a Kirk Franklin original after my deafness. Somehow, my mind played tricks on me as I listened to the instruments.
My heart jumped at thunderous rumble inflicted by Mackenzie’s imaginary wooden stick, pounding invisible drums and tapping fictitious cymbals. With confidence, her fingers stroked pretend piano keys.
Her expression, most humorous, depicted the altos’ deep voices and the sopranos’ melodious high pitches. Who knew that when I stepped into the God’s Grace Apostolic Church, I would enter utopia? Suddenly, I felt like praising God for what I had—my eyes to gaze, hands to enjoy her soft skin, and a heart that throbbed faster when she was close. At that moment, for some unexplained reason, I thanked God that I was deaf. Can you believe that?
Thanking God for allowing the worst event to happen in my life to make me the happiest. How else would I’ve met a woman whose love was fierce and unconditional? Then months after our meeting, I, Noel Richardson, lost Mackenzie Norton.
Monday, December 31, 2007
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