“Are you from Alabama? You sound like it,” the docent at the National Cathedral said to me.
“Yes, I am. That’s amazing. Are you a linguist?”
“Ha. No, not formally. But I’ve learned to listen attentively to the many visitors who come here from all over to be blessed in this holy place. I guess you could say each voice has left its imprint on my life.”
“Speaking of imprints, did you know that one of your state’s most beloved and famous citizens is interred here, in a crypt, below? You should go and check it out.”
So, I did.
Descending the staircase, I entered the Chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea, behind which, is the tomb. I had not known that both Helen and her beloved teacher, Anne Sullivan Macy, are interred here, entombed together.
A nearby inscription holds Helen’s words: “Blessings upon the receptacle of the precious dust which my heaven-sent teacher wore as a garment as she wrought her miracle of liberation through Him who is the Lord of Life and Love.”
And a plaque, marking the tomb, holds these: “Helen Keller (1880 — 1968) and her lifelong companion, Anne Sullivan Macy, are interred in the columbarium behind this chapel.”
The words also are written in Braille, though they are nearly worn away by all the thousands fingers of the vision-impaired which have moved reverently over them through the years.
Sighted though I seem, I laid my hand upon them, listening to feel for the voice of the Teacher and the pupils imbued therein, hoping the miracle of the many and the One also would take hold of me.
The Wooded Path 