I wasn’t even supposed to usher on Sunday. My wife and I are part of the usher team at Augustana Lutheran Church in Chicago, but our usual commitment is for the fourth Sunday each month. Jean was elsewhere that day, but I came with our grandson, Alex. I promptly learned from another usher that two men expected to serve were missing. She asked if I could assist her. Why not? I agreed.

Later, she asked if I could be the one who stayed outside in the narthex. One of us usually remains out there to greet late-arriving visitors, distribute bulletins, and take a count of the attendees. During the offering, two more ushers join to assist in passing the collection plates. All in all, it is a relatively easy way to be of service.

Sometimes, there are other tasks—helping newcomers find restrooms, hearing aids, copies of the sermon–whatever. None of it is very complicated. It just requires a willingness to serve.

On this Sunday, as the service progressed, I noticed an elderly, unfamiliar African American gentleman near the back who was fumbling with his hymnal. He flipped through it, then put it back in the little slot below the pew in front of him. This happened two or three times. He looked uncomfortable and frustrated.

Sometimes visitors to a Lutheran church can be slightly confused by the order of worship, depending on what, if any, other Christian tradition they are accustomed to. One primary goal of ushers should be to make everyone feel as comfortable and welcome as possible. I discreetly wandered over and quietly asked if I could be of assistance. I thought I might be able to explain something.

“I can’t read the words,” he told me. Thinking he needed to explain, he added, “The stores have reading glasses for $9, but they cut off my check . . . .” His voice trailed off.

I did not inquire further. Social Security? Disability? Pension? This was neither the time nor the place to ask. He needed glasses.

“I came because I wanted to be able to sing in church.”

There was a heartbreaking note of sincerity in his frustration. It was also striking that inability to afford reading glasses was the source of that frustration. As noted in my last blog post, just a month ago I had cataract surgery to fix my own reading problems, which bore no connection to poverty. Having acquired 20/20 distance vision with artificial lens implants, but needing reading glasses to continue reading and working on a computer, I had gone to Walgreen’s initially to get reading glasses with 1.5 magnification for computer work as recommended by my ophthalmologist after the surgery. After the second surgery, he also recommended 2.5 for normal reading use, such as newspapers or books. In each case, following a suggestion from my younger sister, I looked for a three-pack that cost a little over $16, closer to $20 with sales tax. For the second set, I discovered from the cashier that they were “buy one set, get one free” that day. I now had three pairs for computer use, and six for reading. I spread them around the house to avoid having to find them when I need them. One pair here, one pair there . . . . They were cheap—at least for me.

But this man was embarrassed at his inability to read the hymnal for the mere lack of $10 to buy a pair of readers. I had never thought of such a simple need being out of reach, but for him it was real.

“Let me help you,” I said. I walked away toward our grandson, sitting a few rows forward on the same side of the sanctuary.

“Give me the pouch with the glasses,” I said softly. At first, Alex looked at me as if he were confused. I urgently pointed to the Houston-themed pouch (actually, a rubber beverage cooler and tourism promotional item, adapted for the purpose) in which my reading glasses sat, and he realized what I wanted. I removed the glasses and tossed the empty pouch back on the pew.

I took the glasses back to our visitor. “These are yours,” I said. “I have others.” He looked surprised but accepted them quickly and tried them on.

Before long, he was leafing through the hymnal and the bulletin with the order of service. “I can see really good now,” he said.

During the offering, to my surprise, he insisted on placing a dollar in the plate.

For much of the remainder of the service, as opportunities allowed, I saw him conversing with a young man in the pew behind him, discussing his new experience. “I used to go to the Catholic church,” he said at one point. Perhaps, somewhere, he had heard that, if you really wanted to sing, Lutheran congregations have made a point of it for nearly 500 years. One of Martin Luther’s big changes during the Reformation was to turn his congregations into singing congregations, and so they remain to this day. It is one of the more distinctive aspects of Lutheran worship, and one of the reasons Lutheran composers produced a profusion of hymns in the centuries that followed.

Or, maybe this man just found us by happenstance.

Either way, he was suddenly happier and seemingly more fulfilled. I now had no glasses until I drove home, which took a while after we picked up Jean, and the three of us enjoyed lunch in a Mexican restaurant in Oak Park, but I no longer need glasses to drive.

And like I said, there were lots more at home.

“They’re yours,” I told the man again. “Just take good care of them.” When not wearing them proudly, he stashed them in a coat pocket for safekeeping.

It was a simple gift, and I have been blessed with more than I need. I don’t know where he lives or how. But I am reasonably certain that he felt his life had improved. At least, it certainly seemed that way, given that new smile on his face.

Jim Schwab