She wheeled me through the exhibits in the chair we’d borrowed from the front desk. It felt to me like a miracle: not that I was in the chair—I’d needed that a year ago when we’d first talked about going to a museum or art gallery, but I’d chosen instead not to go; not that I was being wheeled around—I’d needed that five years ago when I’d insisted on walking myself through the airports on the way home from Afghanistan though I was flown business class because I was too sick to sit up. What felt like a miracle on Saturday was that I was in the chair and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. No anxiety, no shame, just gratefulness to be able to linger long enough to read the information and enjoy the exhibits. That freedom seemed like a much bigger miracle than the miracle that would have been needed for me to stand for the three hours we moved slowly through the museum.
I don’t know to what to attribute the change: my mother’s prayers? God’s deepening of my certainty of being loved just as I am? my decreasing fear of the messiness of life? I feel a bit like the newly sighted man trying to answer all the questions about how he was healed, “One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!” One thing I do know: a year ago I shuddered to think of setting foot (or seat) in a wheelchair; on Saturday I was free.
Our God is a healing God: sometimes he heals us out of wheelchairs and sometimes into them.
There are a host of ways to pick up your bed and walk.