I watched Pete heave his aged frame
from his walker, gripping the handle with one hand, using the other to keep his
pants from tumbling to the floor while he reinserted his belt into its loops. I
knew that Pete did not want help. He still possessed enough pride to put his
own pants on. An airport security agent walked down the aisle, navigating
belongings strewn across the floor. He came to Pete’s shoes, gave them a kick,
and exclaimed, “I don’t know why people leave things laying all over my
floor.” For a brief second, my heart was torn between the desire to demand an
apology, and the realization that verbally chastising a security official was
not going to get us on our airplane. I stayed in my seat, but that incident
marks the moment in my life when I became an advocate for persons with
disabilities.
Despite
one or two bright spots, I have been very uncomfortable around people with
disabilities for most of my life. I responded to my discomfort by attempting to
eliminate it. I never deliberately mistreated someone with a disability. I just
pretended they didn’t exist.
Several
years ago, I took a study trip to Israel as part of a graduate degree program.
In our group of about forty people was a man named Pete, a pastor. Pete was far
from what you’d expect a pastor to be. He had retired into the pastorate after
a career in the Navy, and his demeanor was more suited to calling down
hell-fire on those swabbing the decks than it was to declaring faith, hope, and
love from the pulpit.
Pete suffered from a number of health issues, and used a
walker to get around. It had a flip-down seat that would convert it into a sort
of wheelchair. Together, a handful of us pushed and pulled Pete across the
Holy Land. It wasn’t always easy. Even at their peak, ancient cities were not
designed with accessibility in mind. Their ruins sometimes proved a challenge
for the most mobile of us. Pete somehow managed to take it all in stride, while
still clearly articulating his displeasure with the state of his mobility. When
the terrain proved too difficult, he would find some scenic vantage point and
sit quietly while the rest of us continued exploring. But, if there was any
possibility that he could make it up that three-thousand-year-old cobblestone
ramp, he was going to give it a try, a try laced with all the grunts, grumbles,
and complaints he could muster.
There
is a city called Hazor. A few thousand years ago it was an impenetrable
fortress overlooking a broad valley. An enemy challenged the king’s ego, and he
marched his army out of the thick walls to fight below. Today, you can see the
intact stone walls still ringing the city, and the blackened remains of the
palace that was burned to the ground while left unguarded. When I met Pete, I
was drawn from my carefully prepared defenses against those with disabilities, and while I
played in the valley, my prejudices were destroyed.
One
morning, a few members of our group began complaining about Pete’s grumpy
disposition. I lost my temper. On paper, this was an adventure Pete could not
do, but he did it. The fact that he was unpleasant while doing portions of it
made him human to me. Yes, he was grumpy. This was exceedingly difficult for him.
He had good reason to be unpleasant, but he still did it. At some point I
realized that his disability caused more discomfort for him than it did for me.
I acknowledge that is hardly the “Aha!” moment it seemed to me at the time.
Pete altered my perspective on those with disabilities. These were not
anomalies of nature, difficult to understand, and best avoided. These were
normal people accomplishing hard things, doing their best to overcome the
obstacles they faced. Not only could I understand that, I could honor that. We
should all demonstrate such courage and determination. Today, I look back on
those weeks spent pushing Pete around Israel, listening to his colorful
commentary, and consider myself privileged.
If you want evidence that there’s a God who is
active in the world, try this on. Four months after I met Pete, my son Isaac
was born. Isaac has a disability. He uses a walker to get around. It has a
flip-down seat that converts it into a sort of wheelchair. He is not always
happy with the challenges that he must overcome, but he tackles them
nonetheless. We had to make changes, in attitude and lifestyle, as Isaac
unapologetically elbowed his way into our hearts, but discomfort with who he is
has never been one of those struggles. Pete already burnt that palace to the
ground.
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