I learned about being disabled this summer

Reflections on the church

This summer was going to be the time I became more technologically adept. For me that could simply mean learning how to unplug my laptop and plug it in elsewhere.
I had high hopes of impressing my family, friends and co-workers with my newfound ability to copy onto a disk or e-mail to a server list or maybe even create a PowerPoint presentation.
Instead, what I learned on my summer vacation was what it is like to be physically disabled.
This learning wasn’t as glamorous as what I had intended but very instructive to me as a person and as a pastor.
For six weeks after I shattered my ankle and broke a bone in my right leg, I moved around with a heavy boot brace, hopping on my left foot while balancing on a walker.
Believe me, this means of transporting yourself is slow going. If I needed speed or to go a long distance in public, I used a wheelchair. There was a certain amount of liberation in this means of moving, but there was also a certain amount of humiliation.
At the beginning of this period, I didn’t attend Sunday worship because I was supposed to prop my leg up high as much as possible.
During that time, this thought occurred to me: “I wonder how many churches in my district I could actually attend because they have handicapped accessible entrances, parking and restrooms?”
I really hadn’t paid enough attention to answer my own question, but I can guarantee you I will be paying attention as I travel around for charge conferences.
Here are some insights I’ve gained from being physically disabled:
> For someone like me who comes and goes as she pleases, a sustained experience of dependence and immobility like mine can be emotionally and spiritually difficult. It’s funny, but everyone—even strangers—constantly questioned me about my level of pain.
My standard response was that the pain wasn’t as difficult to handle as the lack of mobility and independence. No one ever asked me to elaborate.
> Since family members would sometimes bring me a plate of food at a social occasion or push me in the wheelchair, I often had someone ask, “How does it feel being the queen?” And here, my response was that I actually felt more like a toad in a hole than a queen.
It is difficult to explain how vulnerable you feel crossing the street at eye level with the grill of a big truck that seems to be slowing down to let you cross but may or may not stop. Or how frustrating it is in a shop to be low enough that the clothes on racks slap your face or the shopkeepers can’t see you at the counter.
> Common courtesy became so much more important to me. For example, it was hard for my daughter to negotiate wheeling me backwards over a threshold and holding the door open for me at the same time.
It was so wonderful when someone would notice our struggle and leap forward to help or anticipate our next move and make it easier. (I have to say that men were more likely to show us this kind of courtesy than women.)
I also understand better why one who is not physically disabled should never, ever park in an accessible parking place even if for a moment just to save time when someone may be circling the parking lot who really needs that space.
> Everyone likes to tell you horror stories about injuries they have known or heard about from others. I now know many, many new ways I could injure myself again, and that is not comforting but terrifying. I hope I can stop myself from scaring others when I am tempted to tell my story to someone in recovery.
My physical disability is temporary, but I hope what I have learned on my summer vacation is permanent.
I have asked God’s forgiveness for my own insensitivity to people with disabilities. I’m grateful that my eyes have been opened to some of the consequences of this form of suffering. I hope to be more considerate and compassionate in the future.