I come from India, and, in my culture, someone sitting in a wheelchair is necessarily perceived as lower in status than the one standing. He has no name, no significance, and no identity save in that rusty wheelchair. He has already been written off as a loser, unfit for anything good. Some unfortunate soul has to push his wheelchair and his life forward. Therefore, someone walking by looks down upon him with pity. Poor loser. Almost instantly, all of the beholder’s expressions shrink and sink low. Eyes droop, smiles dip, heads hang low, almost in shame, for someone else’s estate.

I know that feeling. I used to do exactly the same until God took away a crib and placed a wheelchair into my arms.

Our Story

Mothering a child with third-degree spina bifida (myelomeningocyle) coupled with other birth defects helped me to slow down and see reality as Jesus saw it, while, all along, I was sprinting on a mythical mirage. Adoption hadn’t been on our family’s radar. I vividly remember charting out our 10-year goals as a family in 2010. We were going to have lots of babies, homeschool all our children, run a business, scale a church, and, in short, become culture changers.

Little did I comprehend then that God’s kingdom isn’t the ideal we imagine. Living stones and bedazzling jewels in the kingdom are cut in affliction and often rejected as anomalies in this world. God inserted grief, miscarriages, depression, and personal failure to turn our pathway toward adoption. But even that journey was a road disregarded by my culture. Though adoption became somewhat normalized in the new millennium, bringing home a disabled child with severe medical issues was scandalous, even to the closest of allies.

When we made our decision, some were aghast and quizzed us, “You are not serious, are you? Will this not jeopardize your life?” A few acquaintances met our son for the first time and thought they were cheering us when they said, “Boy, isn’t he the lucky one for having lovely parents like you?” A recent visit to the hospital illustrates what well-meaning Christians with faulty theological presuppositions often think when they tell us, “I am still praying that God would do a miracle in your womb and bless you!” Once, a well-known neurosurgeon, who specialized in hydrocephalus surgeries, thumbed through my reports and suggested that I go back to an obstetrician instead of an orphanage. Truly this world is a mirage, the kingdom and its virtues kept concealed from many eyes!

A Treasure in a Jar of Clay

Questions and comments such as those mentioned above convey the idea that children with special needs and disabilities have to be avoided at all costs. They are not a blessing; instead, they diminish value. They drag us along to their decay. But the truth is, my son is a gift handpicked by God for someone as unworthy as myself. This is the reality. The wheelchair is mine, and my son stands very tall. Lest you think I portray a false sense of modesty, hear me out.

We often see the outward appearance and conclude that the inside must be hollow. The truth is quite the opposite. Real treasure always lies on the inside, not the outside. Have you ever wondered why rubies and diamonds are found under dark quarries and not above the blue skies? Or why honey is found inside a crevice, or pearls under the deep sea? Because, if they were in obvious places, they would no longer be called a treasure. The same is true of people. Great people have to be unearthed. You won’t find them showing off. The most beautiful souls are not obsessed with dabbing powder on their faces. They are busy polishing their hearts.

Getting to know my son, Abhi, is like mining the deep for hidden treasures. There is much sparkling glory in him, fashioned in the dark places of life, that only time and trial will reveal. His disability is physical, true, but more often than not, it is in the eye of the beholder. I often forget that he does have a disability! We do life normally, like everyone else. I must say, sometimes he does life better than many others.

Tuesday mornings, Abhi wheels his scooter around, doing room service for our friends who come over for staff meetings. He politely takes their requests, then scoots back with glasses of water and snacks. Every Sunday, our church meets for Bible study at a member’s home. The place is packed with 20-some guests, and while people eat, drink, and make merry, Abhi goes around and picks up all the empty cups and plates with a cheer that, alas, I do not always portray. His first doctor dared to call him a vegetable. I dare say he’s more like my little helper.

When I am tired, he kisses and massages my feet. When I am lonely, he comforts me with a warm hug. When I cry, he’s the first to hand me a tissue. He always has a kind word to say. When I get angry with him for something, he speaks tenderly to me. Who taught this child the art of gentle persuasion? Or is it God silencing my wind through a breeze so mellow as this?

Abhi is ever thinking and praying for the ones who are have-nots. His friends come once and disappear for a while; but the next time they return, he gladly welcomes them instead of shutting them out. What child is this?

The Heart of the Matter

Abhi has been home with us since December 2017. I have met some wonderful souls who are Abhi’s cheerleaders. A mother who first saw his condition and saw hope. A loving pediatrician who sees him as her own son and treats him with a tear trickling down her face. Grandparents who dote on him and pour their lives into him. A church family that has arms as wide for him as her doors are for hurting strangers. Friends who will knock on our doors to come and play with Abhi since he cannot always go and play with them. As his mother, I have the greater blessing of all those who count him more normal than his appearance warrants.

Yet, I have also witnessed disability in the hearts of many. A year ago, Abhi and I tried to take the city train, but we got stuck trying to cross the busy road since there were steps that divided the road (who would have thought?). I lifted him from the wheelchair but wondered how I was going to juggle both his weight and the weight of the wheelchair over the steps and across the road all at once. While I was still thinking, a man appeared out of nowhere and lifted the wheelchair, while engaging in a phone conversation with someone. He stopped the traffic, got me to the station, and bid goodbye. No more words were said. That same moment, the cops inside the metro station denied me back-side entrance into the accessible pass, unless I first went up to the front door and through a flight of stairs to get my bags scanned, all the while leaving my disabled son alone on the street in a wheelchair. Finally, after minutes of haggling, one cop decided to take my bag to the scanner and bring it back to me. Far better to risk my bag than my son! One moment was met with two opposite sensitivities.

Encounters like these often make me wonder who is more disabled—my son who cannot walk or the men who would not walk? An orphan child with arms wide open or the family that folds their arms in return? A child with blindness who walks by himself with his cane on a busy road or the guy who drives down the same road, texting? A disabled boy who loves to serve or a fully abled man slouching on his couch with no desire to work?

God is fully able to carry my son where he cannot go, but who can help a stiff heart? The hardened heart is more disabled and in need of deeper, costlier treatment than a broken body. But there is one whose bleeding heart can heal even the hardest of hearts, because His heart no longer bleeds but beats with life-giving energy. This heart does not call out judgement on the regressive or ignorant but pities them. This heart does not troll the offender but gives him hope. This heart pierced my self-sufficiency and higher estate by handing me a wheelchair and putting me in my place. It is this very heart—the heart of Christ—that animates the treasure that is my beloved son, who lives in a disabled body.

Postscript

Abhi is presently well adjusted into our family and seeks to grow and become a full, communicant member of our church. He loves his family, church, grandparents, and friends. In our country, the unsaid rule is that a disabled person is to be cared for, their whole life long, by someone. Therefore, facilities are designed for dependence and not independence. We are breaking away from this rule and trying to create an environment of independence for Abhi in a new, accessible home that we are preparing for him. Another struggle we are facing is that there is no social security or insurance policy for the disabled. Government programs are meant for the poor and do not cater well for the average middle-class family. Currently, we do not have medical insurance for Abhi, and he has no benefits from the state. We are living in an inequitable society. Please pray that God would provide for all of Abhi’s needs, according to His riches in glory, and would demonstrate in him His great love and hope for those who are likewise disabled.