To be more like Fanny

I spent the Wednesday evenings of my youngest years trying to earn badges. Every year, the Wednesday night children’s program at our church culminated in an award ceremony, where each deserving child was decked with a pin for every activity he or she had completed. And then there were the awards for those cherubs who had gone above and beyond. Kids who had performed the unthinkable—learned all their Bible verses—received a huge Hershey bar, the kind you can break up into squares and spread over weeks. The fourth-graders, old enough to achieve truly great deeds, won fame and recognition for completing the famous Fanny Crosby project.

Personally, I never liked chocolate enough to learn all my verses. But by the time I hit fourth grade, I loved fame and recognition enough to conquer Fanny Crosby. To receive the award, you had to read a book about the blind 19th century hymnist and write a paper about what you learned. You had to memorize one of her hymns and sing it aloud—by yourself—in front of the lady in the church office. Last—and most thrilling—you had to go around blindfolded for several hours, just to find out what it felt like to be Fanny Crosby. (Sadly, you didn’t get to wear her high ruffled collar, swooping skirts, or dark glasses. Just the blindfold.)

My determination for praise ran high. Still, I acted in accord with a misguided moral that too often shapes my life: “If you wait till the last minute, it only takes a minute.” I took out my pencil and began to write the paper. I scribbled for some time, proud of the masterpiece I was producing without even reading the book. A few days later, I tripped along the neighbor’s front yard in a blindfold, jubilant with novelty. The next Wednesday I stood in the church lady’s office, pertly repeating: “Redeemed how I love to proclaim it, / Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb!”

There was only one problem. In my rush and my distaste for reading, I had written my masterpiece not about Fanny Crosby but about Helen Keller. I had traced the triumphant story of a poor young girl, both deaf and blind, and the determined teacher who saved her from permanent ignorance. In short, I had done it all wrong.

But I had an in with the lady in the church office. I hadn’t read the book about Fanny Crosby. And in the fifth grade, I didn’t do all the work for the David Livingstone project. But the church lady was charmed by me, a victim who couldn’t finish the project—or do it right—for reasons X, Y, and Z. Thanks to her oversights, I crossed the stage and won both awards.

Before she began her formal education, Fanny Crosby had already memorized the Pentateuch, the book of Ruth, many Psalms and Proverbs, and most of the New Testament. Rather than feeling entitled to sight, she had resolved herself to contentment by the age of 8.

You can’t unwind the clock. But if I could go back, I would try to be more like Fanny.