If you could go back, what would you change?

Occasionally someone asks a question something like this:

So much good has come from your injury. Knowing that, if you could go back and change that day would  you do it?

I generally don’t like hypothetical situations. It’s too easy to take an extreme, non-negotiable position when you don’t have to deal with real-life consequences. But with this issue I’m absolutely certain of my answer.

Yes, I would!

Does that seem selfish?

(As I explained yesterday (Anniversary) I’m writing about my injury more than usual this week. It’s an appropriate occasion for reflecting on an event that’s profoundly shaped my life. Other articles are Who Belongs? and An Able Bodied World?)

The folks who ask that question usually seem surprised. How could I possibly consider tossing away all the great friends, the personal growth, and the people who’ve been touched and inspired by my story?

That response relies on a false choice. I can either have the wheelchair and the blessings that followed OR I can walk and lose the blessings. That’s not how it works.

God causes ALL things to work together for good (Romans 8:28). He doesn’t need human mistakes, senseless accidents, horrible diseases, or impossibly tragic deaths to create good results.

God didn’t “cause” my accident. I realize some people will disagree, but I don’t believe He needed this struggle to get my attention..

I can’t possibly know how my life might have played out if I’d simply suffered a broken arm or a few bruises. I’m sure things would be different. I’m also sure God would have caused those altered circumstances to work together for good.

I am decidedly NOT grateful for life in a wheelchair. There’s nothing noble or heroic about it.

But I AM grateful that God didn’t give up on me, that He created so much good in the midst of tragedy. I’m grateful for hope, for the ability to see possibilities and dreams in difficult circumstances, for the assurance that God works for good in every single life.

In the end, questions like this don’t really matter because life doesn’t provide do-overs. Just as well—I’d likely make an even bigger mess.

Life’s not really about events and circumstances anyway. Whatever happens, our path is determined mostly by our attitudes and responses.

We can choose to move forward with the certain hope that God keeps His promises–in ALL circumstances.

I’m grateful.

Please leave a comment here.

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Relentless Grace

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Note: as I process my experience from Rich’s Ride I’ve been writing some of my thoughts about accessibility and inclusion. Previous articles include Ain’t No Normal and An Able Bodied World?

One of the surprises we encountered during Rich’s Ride was a church with a designated seating area for folks with “special needs.”

We weren’t offered a choice. Although I could have moved a chair and easily parked anywhere in the auditorium, we were identified as “special” and guided to our proper spot. In this section we sat with other folks in wheelchairs, a few older people using walkers, autistic individuals, and others with less obvious challenges.

As guests, we chose to comply, but it felt really awkward. I wondered about the assumptions behind the conclusion that grouping us together— toward the back at the far side of the large auditorium—was a good policy?

I assume that whoever chose this arrangement meant well. I can only speculate about specifics, but I’m sure the intent was to be kind and helpful. Perhaps they wished to make things easier, to help us feel more comfortable or less conspicuous. Maybe they thought we might need extra assistance. I don’t know.

What’s your response to this arrangement?

Regardless of intentions, the moment I entered I received a clear message: YOU’RE DIFFERENT.

Without even speaking to me someone decided I wasn’t capable of choosing my own seat. I wasn’t allowed to interact with the “normal” people. I was categorized, labeled, and shuffled off to the side.

I clearly didn’t fully belong.

I’m sure that wasn’t the goal. Nobody meant to isolate us and give the impression that we were sort of “in the way.”

I couldn’t help wondering about a wheelchair user taking the risk to enter church for the first time. Would he experience a sense of fellowship? Would he believe that he has a purpose, that he’s uniquely gifted by God, that the church exists to equip and support him in using those gifts?

Or would he feel marginalized and unwelcome? Would he sense, as I did, that he didn’t fully belong?

Your thoughts?

Please leave a comment here.

Relentless Grace

I hope you’ll take advantage of our 2-for-1 deal.

Click this button and give the gift of Relentless Grace this Christmas.

And thanks for helping spread the word.

Rich’s Ride provided countless rewards and a few challenges. One significant test arrived in the form of a question.

A Christian disability-advocacy group invited me to a meeting. I began as I often do with a small audience, by asking what they wanted me to talk about. After a short pause, a lady began the discussion with a statement/question I’m still processing.

“You’re doing this amazing project that inspires everyone, especially people like us. Can you tell us how you’re able to function so well in an able-bodied world?”

Before reading further I invite you to ponder those lines for a moment. What stands out for you?

Her question still challenges me on several levels, but one phrase honestly stops me cold: an able-bodied world.

What’s your immediate reaction? Do we live in “an able-bodied world”?

If so, I’m an interloper; I don’t belong. An able-bodied world might tolerate me, even make allowances for me, but I’m at best a resident alien. A guy who’s paralyzed below his chest cannot claim full citizenship in an able-bodied world.

This was a Christian organization, and they assumed God created the world for people who meet some arbitrary physical, mental, and emotional standards. I guess those of us who fall short ought to stay out of the way and feel grateful that we’re allowed to hang out on the edges.

I’m not blind to reality. I want to figure out how to follow Jesus in real life, and it’s clear that I face a unique set of physical challenges. There’s no point in pretending.

But words have incredible power to shape our attitudes. Description becomes perception, and perception becomes reality. I hope you’ll leave a comment here with your thoughts on some questions that challenge me.

• What are my unspoken assumptions about who belongs and who doesn’t?
• Where do my words and behaviors marginalize others?
• Where’s the line between being realistic and simply catering to my own comfort zone?

Do we live in “an able-bodied world”?

 Relentless Grace

I hope you’ll take advantage of our 2-for-1 deal.

Click this button and give the gift of Relentless Grace this Christmas.

And thanks for helping spread the word.

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Becky and I have this morbid humor between us about some of the things we say related to disability. We chuckle when she asks me to “run to the store” or tells me “don’t step on Monte’s tail.”

The other day I was getting on my bike, using my wheelchair for balance. Becky asked, “Are you done with your chair?”

“I wish.”

As I rode that day I thought about that exchange. It occurred to me that one day Jesus will ask, “Are you done with your chair?”

And I’ll reply, “Absolutely!”

I’m looking forward to that.

I can live with the chair and the paralysis. I can find joy and meaning with my altered body.

But I must confess that there’s some anticipation and excitement in knowing that the day will come when I’m done with my chair.

Please leave a comment here.

What would Jesus think if I showed up in Bethlehem?

I’ve been trying to spend some time each day during this Christmas season at the nativity scene, wondering about the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of each character. And I found myself wondering how Jesus would respond to the presence of a disabled person in that holy circle.

I’d probably try to stay away. I’d list endless excuses to stay in my own warm, safe environment and let someone else go.

I don’t do cold very well. Bethlehem isn’t wheelchair accessible—no pavement, dirty streets filled with all sorts of obstacles. So when I showed up I’d be reluctant, maybe even angry or bitter. Would He notice? Would it matter?

I always interrupt. I’d need help across the rough floor. Perhaps one of the Magi or a shepherd would leave his place to assist, or maybe an angel would clear a path for me. One of the animals might need to move. I hate causing so much commotion.

They came to see Him, not to help me. Would my presence break the mood?

I’d need a place near the front. Someone else might move farther away so I could see from my seated perspective.

Everyone wants the good seats, the best places. Everyone wants to be close to Jesus. Would my special need cause resentment?

Others brought gifts. My hands fumble with wrapping, and the ruts and bumps and jolts make carrying a package impossible.

I didn’t bring anything with eternal symbolic value or meaning. Would He think I wasn’t grateful?

Everyone else kneels in worship and praise, but I can’t assume the customary posture of humility. I can only slump forward and hope muscle spasms don’t cause me to lurch onto the floor. I don’t look like I’m worshipping.

Would the others question my sincerity? Would He be offended?

I’m crashing a party for special guests. The Magi received an astrological invitation along with the first GPS directions. Shepherds were summoned by an angel’s proclamation. But I just showed up with no special summons.

Nobody will compose a carol about a wheelchair and a manger. I won’t have a part in the Christmas programs. Would my presence destroy the symmetry of a carefully choreographed eternal moment?

Perhaps I should just hang back and observe from a respectful distance. I don’t fit in; I don’t want others making a fuss. I can’t really participate anyway.

I don’t belong here.

# # # # #

You see it, right? The excuses and self-pity, the misplaced focus that completely misses the point of the gathering?

IT’S NOT ABOUT ME!

It’s not about neatly wrapped gifts or carefully chosen guests. It’s not about bumpy floors or animal poop in my wheels or who gets to sit in front.

It’s not about whether I go. It’s about the fact that He came.

What makes you feel like you don’t belong?

(note: This is a re-write of a year-old article (A Wheelchair And A Manger) as a follow-up to (Do We Really Need The Baby?).

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Adversity And Christmas

The most unfair thing we could possibly do is to treat everyone exactly the same.

Do you agree?

I want to follow up on yesterday’s story about fairness. I recapped a conversation with a guy who definitely disagreed with the opening quote. John believed that allocating a disproportionate share of resources to those with special needs wasn’t “fair.”

Part of John’s objection dealt with a legitimate public policy question—what’s the proper role of government in this sort of issue? It’s a reasonable topic of debate on which people with the best intentions can disagree. So while I differ with his conclusion, I certainly acknowledge the validity of his question.

I also recognize my personal bias. As a guy in a wheelchair, I clearly have a horse in this particular race. I benefit from the ADA and its public accessibility requirements. I’m certain that affects my perspective.

So, with those disclaimers, I believe John is wrong when he equates fairness with treating everyone the same.

Rules.

“Treat everyone exactly alike” is a rule. It’s easy, no thinking or wisdom or discernment required. As long as I follow the rule, I’m off the hook.

Rules and laws always sound good. Most of them begin with good intentions. We see a problem, so we make a rule or pass a law including an appropriate penalty. Problem solved.

Except that the problem’s rarely solved. Most rules spawn cottage industries devoted to stretching boundaries, discovering loopholes, or avoiding detection. NASCAR auto racing drivers have a saying: “If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.”

So we create more rules, ramp up enforcement, and impose stiffer fines and tougher sentences. We build more jails and open more courts. And we get more loopholes, more sophisticated evasion tactics.

I’m not a fan of Pollyanna. Society needs laws and law enforcement. I get that. But I know this for certain:

No significant moral problem will ever be solved with rules.

We can scream at each other, demonize each other, and try to force compliance with penalties and sanctions. We can reduce important issues to political slogans and compromise principles to elect those who endorse our particular slogan. We can attack and marginalize those with whom we disagree. And then we can watch as the rhetoric becomes increasingly divisive and hostile.

None of these will ever solve the important issues we face. Substance abuse, sexuality, human trafficking, violence—none of these can be addressed with more rules, because they’re heart issues.

Elections and laws cannot change hearts.

WDJD? (What Did Jesus Do?)

Jesus ignored a brutal, repressive occupation force. Rome imposed oppressive taxes and indiscriminately tortured, imprisoned, and murdered. It seems that Jesus was oblivious to the suffering of His own people. Did He simply not care?

I believe He cared more deeply than we can possibly imagine. I also believe He understood that issues of spirit and heart can only be truly addressed at the spirit and heart level. He knew that the answers to our real problems rest in simple, profound, eternal principles that cannot be reduced to a list of rules.

Jesus tells me to love everyone, unconditionally. Simple to say, awfully difficult to do—I’d prefer something more concrete. Exactly what do I have to do? What are the minimum standards? Tell me the requirements.

And that’s precisely what He refuses to do. I want a list; He offers a relationship. I want the rules; He gives me Himself.

Jesus expressed compassion and forgiveness toward law breakers. He reserved His anger for the law makers. He served and sacrificed Himself for those who had no answers, and condemned the “brood of vipers” who burdened others with layers of regulations.

John and I talked later about his concept of fairness. I told him I appreciated being able to access his facility, but I was sorry that he was compelled to accommodate me. I said it would feel a lot better if the accommodations were a gift freely given.

We had a nice conversation. He was gracious and kind, but I don’t think he changed his views much. I understand.

Laws and rules and threats of punishment may force minimal, grudging conformity, but they also foster resentment and harden hearts.

I don’t think coerced compliance is what Jesus had in mind.

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Do you believe in fairness? Do you try to treat everyone equally?

I had a curious conversation recently. Seated over lunch at an event with some men I’d just met, one guy (correctly) observed that the entrance to the building was a challenge for someone in a wheelchair. Another man (I’ll call him John) noted that the owners had done a lot to make their facilities accessible. Then he added an interesting comment.

“I’m not sure they should feel bad about not catering to every possible need. Devoting so many resources to such a small minority isn’t really fair.”

A couple of his friends at the table were clearly embarrassed by his brutal honesty, but I assured them I wasn’t offended. I asked John to explain.

Turns out he operates a small business. He’d recently done some remodeling of his facility, and compliance to ADA standards increased the cost of the project. None of his employees required accommodations and most of his customer contact happened in other locations. He didn’t feel that it was fair to force a private business to accommodate every potential special need.

John may have been a bit blunt, but he had a valid point: why shouldn’t he be allowed to decide whether the potential loss of business justified the additional expense?

At this point his buddies were rolling their eyes and squirming uncomfortably. One apologized. “Don’t mind John—he runs his mouth without engaging his brain.”

I just smiled, more at their discomfort than anything else. They tried to defend me by arguing the merits of the ADA. What if you or one of your employees became disabled? Do you understand how much business and good will you’re potentially losing?

When logic failed, they resorted to emotion: Are you insane for raising this issue with a guy you just met who’s in a wheelchair?

John’s mind clearly wasn’t going to be swayed, and after a few minutes they threw up their hands, apologized again, and left with John in tow.

I’ve thought a lot about John’s position. I don’t wish to defend the ADA or argue for universal accommodations. I’m grateful for them, but I am interested in one particular aspect of John’s argument.

Is it “fair” to allocate a disproportionate share of resources to those with special needs?

What do you think?

For the sake of discussion, set aside legalities and politics and whether or not it’s government’s place to dictate such things. Try to step outside your personal biases and beliefs about whether society as a whole benefits from accommodation and inclusion. Ignore the statistics that might suggest that inclusion benefits more than a “small” minority.

Whether or not it’s right, is it fair to treat people differently?

Why shouldn’t everyone be treated equally? Why should I receive special treatment just because I happen to use a wheelchair?

And, to be clear, John wasn’t advocating any “-ism’s.” Racism, sexism, favoritism. He wasn’t talking about intentionally excluding anyone. He simply raised a valid question about the nature of fairness.

Tomorrow I want to dig into my own response, but first I’d like to hear your thoughts.

Does fairness demand equal treatment, equal standards, equal allocation of resources?

What’s your take?

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Inclusion And Excuses

Disabled…Really?

Sins Of Righteousness

Are you “one of those people who …”?

I lived in schools for about fifty-two years.

K-12, four years of college, and thirty-five years as a teacher—52 of my first 58 years, interrupted by brief stints to build houses (which I enjoyed) and rehab from my injury (which I enjoyed a lot less). Toss in some nights and summers doing a Master’s degree, and it all adds up to a lot of time in schools.

When you live in schools, you learn about labels. Geek. Nerd. Jock. Goth. Skater. Gangster. School’s all about labels. The only worse fate than being labeled and stuck in a group is NOT being labeled and stuck in a group.

Jocks and gangsters get to walk down the middle of the hallway, crowds parting before them in a confused mixture of adoration, disdain, and fear. Geeks and nerds slink along the walls.

In college I took a class called “Adolescent Psychology.” The professor’s opening line: They’re all crazy!

We learned that kids group themselves as a way of separating from parents and developing an identity, that’s it’s normal for them to try out different costumes and roles. Colored hair, odd clothing, mimicked behaviors—it’s all just part of growing up and figuring out who they are. One of the many paradoxes of adolescence involves the need to discover one’s individuality by identifying lock-step with a group.

And we learned that it’s a phase, that eventually we grow out of our need to define ourselves by the group(s) to which we belong.

That professor was mostly right. They ARE all crazy, which explains my love for them as co-conspirators. They do try on identities like costumes, which makes them fun as long as you don’t take it too seriously. There’s something refreshing about a young lady with pink spiked hair and holes in her jeans intently solving an equation, especially when she shows up after Christmas break with beautifully curled hair and a flowered skirt.

The adolescent labeling process makes developmental sense, bringing humor and pathos to a difficult, confusing stage of life. But I always felt less comfortable when adults insisted on placing kids in much less temporary categories.

During my career I taught classrooms filled with “gifted” students and others identified as “special needs.” I often wondered whether Christian parents believed some kids weren’t gifted by God, or whether ANY parents thought their kids weren’t special.

In the same room I’d find kids who were creative and artistic, lazy and driven to achieve, lethargic and hyper-active. Some were inquisitive, some wanted to read everything in sight, and some were fascinated by technology. Some struggled to focus as they worried about issues at home.

And of course it’s obvious which group I just described, right?

I think the professor missed an important point. I don’t see much evidence that we grow out of our adolescent need to define ourselves with labels. When you live in a wheelchair you get really sensitized to labels. People slap them on my forehead (which has plenty of room) like bumper stickers. But you don’t need paralysis to see the harmful effects of labels.

Last time I discussed labels as averages. Today I’m thinking about labels as excuses.

Labels excuse laziness. No need to actually invest in getting to know the person and really understand his perspective. Just slap on a label, toss him in the right bucket, and you “know” all you need to know about him.

Labels excuse marginalization. She’s one of “them” and “they” just can’t do certain things. Of course we’ll be nice to her, but we can’t expect her to really participate. We’ll make a spot on the edges where she can watch without getting in the way.

Labels excuse unacceptable behavior. If you attach the “enemy” label to someone, you don’t have to treat them with respect. So it’s suddenly okay to demonize and shout at the person with different political views. There’s nothing wrong with gossiping and spreading rumors about “bad” people, right?

Labels excuse divisiveness. Why would we support that “evangelical” church down the street? And that one over there that doesn’t condemn our notion of “unbiblical” behavior, or the one around the corner that’s “right wing?” Just label them and the walls magically appear.

Of course, labels don’t really excuse any of these, but they certainly provide convenient excuses. When I hear adults using labels in such hurtful ways, I wonder how much we’ve really progressed since eighth grade.

I can chuckle when a kid with baggy pants will only associate with other kids that have the same brand of baggy pants. They’re learning, and next year they’ll all have short hair and khakis.

It’s a lot harder to find the humor when adults use a label based on behavior, belief, appearance, or perceived ability to justify including or excluding an individual.

And if you’re tempted to think it’s really not that important, that labels are just words, that “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me” I’d offer an alternative view.

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can break my heart.

Broken bones are easily treated; no surgical procedure exists that can mend a broken heart.

Do you see examples of labels as excuses?

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Note: This is part three of a conversation about excuses. Read part 1 or part 2 if you wish. This article was uncomfortable for me to write. I fear that it may be uncomfortable for you to read.

I recently discovered a unique, innovative ministry in Toronto, Canada called The Abilities Church. I copied a few items from their web site:

• Jesus said that we must receive him as little children. The pure gospel is manifested through the weak and simple and not the strong, smart, or sophisticated.
• The Abilities Church is a place where everyone is included and no one is excluded.
• The Abilities Church is a place where everyone belongs and is accepted equally.

Does anyone else have the same questions that echoed through my mind as I read their mission?

Why should a church with these values be unique?

How could these statements NOT be at the core of a church that claims to follow Jesus? 

I’ll begin with a personal disclaimer—this isn’t about me. My church is about as accessible as it gets. Easy entry, no thick carpets, elevator, and no exclusive pews with defined disability areas—I sit wherever I choose by simply moving a chair. (If you don’t think pews with limited cutouts are exclusive, ask yourself how you’d feel if you had to sit in a certain area because you have grey hair or children or blue eyes.)

Of course I sit in exactly the same spot each week, but that’s a personal issue.

I’ve spoken on a couple of occasions from the main platform, which I reached easily via a lift. If I could carry a tune anywhere other than a bucket I could even join the choir. Short of providing my own personal indoor parking space, my church is as accessible and welcoming as possible.

But I know that’s not the situation everywhere. Some buildings are marginally accessible, and some contain barriers that exclude folks with disabilities or relegate them to obvious second-class status.

My friend Mark Stephenson works on disability issues for his denomination. Check out his blog for some great insights about physical accessibility.

Last time I proposed this diagram as a way of understanding excuses and reasons. Today I want to use it to examine the issue of accessibility.

TASK: Make the church truly physically accessible.

Do I really WANT to do it?

We know we’re supposed to say YES, but I’m not certain that’s universally true.

Some people don’t want to sacrifice the pews, thick carpeting, and other traditional architecture. They believe ramps detract from the building’s appearance. They don’t care if the only spot for wheelchairs is in the back or the aisles. They don’t want the discomfort that they feel around people who appear different.

We may not like those attitudes, but at least they’re honest. If you don’t want to change, admit it and accept responsibility for your choice.

For the sake of this article, let’s assume that we actually desire an accessible building.

Am I ABLE to do it?

This answer is unquestionably YES. The standards are clear, the knowledge and technology exists. Obviously it’s more difficult with some buildings than others, but accommodations are possible. No church lacks the ability to create seamless, universal, barrier-free accessibility.

But what about the cost? Well, that brings us to the final question.

Am I WILLING to do it?

Making existing buildings accessible can be expensive, and many congregations dismiss the idea simply because there’s no room in the budget. That’s why this question is essential.

Budgets are not a reason. They’re an excuse.

Nearly every congregation provides significant financial support to missionaries and mission organizations. They’re setting priorities, deciding that missions are more important than other possible activities.

What if a congregation decided that ministering to the disabled in their own community was a priority? What if they decided that providing opportunities for fellowship and participation in ministry was an essential function of the church? What if they decided that welcoming those with physical challenges wasn’t optional?

Such a congregation would face the difficult task of re-aligning financial commitments to align with ministry priorities. They may decide that they’re not willing to sacrifice current programs.

But do you see the difference? They’re no longer using the budget as an excuse. They’re not claiming that they can’t do it. They’re accepting responsibility for their choices by acknowledging the REASON their building isn’t accessible.

How many churches have honestly stated that they’re not willing to re-align their priorities, that accessibility isn’t as important as other budget items? I’d guess there aren’t very many.

How many have claimed it’s not possible because it’s too expensive? That’s an excuse that seeks to deflect responsibility for their difficult choices.

I am not …

advocating that churches ought to stop supporting missionaries. I am not claiming that ministering to persons with disabilities should be a greater priority than bringing Jesus’ message to other countries that need it desperately. Needs are great; budgets are strained, and church leaders must make difficult choices.

I am …

asking whether the person down the street who’s lost and isolated and wonders where God went is, by default or tradition, less important than anyone else. I am asking why that person’s need for fellowship and a place to discover and deploy his gifts is so readily dismissed as financially impossible.

REASONS AND EXCUSES

When asked about budget concerns in light of a struggling economy, a wise pastor recently said, “God’s economy is not the world’s economy.”

I think he was reminding us not to make excuses, suggesting that just maybe God’s big enough to provide what’s needed to do the ministry He puts in our hearts.

I think he was encouraging us to find the courage to accept responsibility for our choices instead of making excuses.

What’s your take?

An Inclusion Ministry is not a personal vision of some people but a biblical mandate for the whole church.  It should not be a secondary ministry but the main ministry of the church.  According to Jesus, “the least among us are the greatest in God’s Kingdom”.  Jesus commanded us to invite and bring people with disabilities to our social gatherings. People with disabilities should be first in the church and not last. (The Abilities Church)

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**This article is a re-post from January 12, 2009. I’m re-visiting the archives while my wife and I enjoy a few days of vacation.

Do you think of yourself as a fairly average person?

One interesting aspect of working with young adolescents involves observing their efforts to discover and define their identity. It’s a fascinating, often painful, and frequently humorous developmental challenge for each individual.

One early step in the process involves separating from their parents’ identity. We’ve all endured and watched this effort, and chuckled as we realize the contradictions involved. That’s because the first step in defining their individual identity almost always involves trying to be exactly like everyone else.

Their efforts to become “unique” result in a need to dress, act, and talk just like their friends. Ideally, as the process continues, they eventually move beyond this imitation stage and develop their own mature sense of individuality.

However, I suspect that many of us never escape completely the need to conform. I’m acutely aware of this tendency whenever I focus on my loss of “normal life.”

In this sense, normal means average. I somehow seek to be like everyone else, and any differences cause a perception that I’m weird, strange, or abnormal.

Intellectually, I know better. I recognize the folly of the adolescent search for uniqueness in conformity. I understand that average is a myth, that each person is an individual with unique strengths and weaknesses. I believe that every circumstance contains challenges and blessings.

But when grief and loss wrap icy fingers around my throat and I struggle simply to breathe, despair often overwhelms logic. When a wheelchair dominates my view, I lose sight of all that remains as I focus only on what’s been lost. When illness pervades my world, it’s easy to forget that illness isn’t all there is. It’s easy to feel trapped, isolated, and desperate.

At those times, all I see are my differences from “everyone else” and from “what used to be.” Everyone else is happy, healthy, and secure. I used to be strong and independent.

Everyone else is “normal.” I used to be “normal.” And now I’m abnormal, and I’ll always be abnormal.

Normal life is an illusion, average is a trap, and life never really was as perfect as I recall. When I recognize this painful reality, I escape the prison of normal.

Circumstances change. Each life is unique. Joy and sorrow coexist in all things. I grieve the losses, celebrate the joys, and adjust to situations. Then I can do my best with what remains.

Question: What’s a joy that you’ve overlooked in a search for conformity?

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