By Sarah Ruszkowski ’11, ’18 MNA

Walton would often claim that a fly bit him, just so that I would sit next to him and scratch his back. He occasionally told other people that this happened, but with Walton and me, a “fly bit him” almost every time I helped him get ready for bed. It became our ritual. He would say, “Hay una mosca!” and I would pretend to look for this “mosca.”

Sitting next to him on the edge of his bed I would scratch his back for a couple of minutes to alleviate the pain of the alleged fly bite. Then I’d lean forward and he would give my back one, good half-a-second scratch. This would all typically happen in silence, broken only by what we described as Walton’s “purr,” a loud raspberry-blowing sound that he would often make when he was happy.

Walton was a 60-something-year-old Cuban man who spent the last 15 years of his life living in L’Arche Greater Washington DC. He had profound physical and intellectual disabilities, and it was one of the greatest privileges of my life to have lived with him for five years, entrusted with his physical care and the running of his home. He died unexpectedly two weeks ago, prompting me to spend a lot of time remembering and reflecting.

It would be easy to look at body like Walton’s and think that it was broken. He was in a wheelchair. His hands were constantly swollen and his fingers lacked dexterity. His insides did not process food in a typical way. But Walton’s body was magnificent in other ways.

As a part of his intellectual disability, Walton did not use a lot of words. He used his body—this body that could so easily be written off as broken or “wrong”—to make the world better. And let me tell you, the world is better because Walton was in it.

Walton was a man who created safe, peaceful spaces for the people around him. He was the first to offer a handshake to a stranger. He held dearly to the memories of his loved ones. He had strong opinions about how much sugar should be in a cup of coffee (a lot) and how often socks should be worn (always). He was an artist and an introvert and convert to Catholicism. He loved the beach, the US Postal Service, and a good, free pen. He knew exactly how to calm down an overwhelmed girl crying next to him (I know from experience). All of this Walton did mostly without words and primarily with his body.

Walton’s body communicated a love much bigger than the words that I try to impose on things most of the time. Sitting next to Walton, scratching his back in silence, was one of the holiest rituals I have ever been a part of. No words, no fancy explanations—just God’s love, incarnate.