Being disabled opened my eyes to a reality I was only remotely aware of before, even though it is the reality for a sizeable portion of our population.

What was once simple and easy is now often complex and difficult. What used to be automatic now requires thought and careful planning.

Most of us rise to the occasion when there is a crisis, but most of us cannot stay risen when the occasional becomes constant. The long haul requires adjustments from both those receiving and those giving assistance.

Often things get stuck at this point of adjustment. It requires acceptance, change, and new modes of conduct. The ramifications are often too much to bear for those involved.

(I wonder if this contributes to the neglect of many elderly, who are sometimes minimally cared for, while on the other hand a short-term situation receives full attention.)

This has also been for me a time of growing inner freedom. Any basing of the essential value of my person on output certainly got smashed overnight. The hidden motives of my service, which included chunks of self-aggrandizement, self-importance, and needing to be needed, all caught up with me.

(Oh, we don’t say it like that. We say, "This is just my little way of helping" or "I’m only doing what has been given me to do" or "I don’t mind." All this is nicely self-depreciating.)

These subtle, unacknowledged realms of self-deception were uncovered. There I was, not able to be useful. And even worse, things continued nicely without me. Horror of horrors, it was sometimes even an improvement when others did what I had thought I was doing so well!

When I was first lying in the hospital, a couple of biblical verses floated around in my head. They still do. Like this one: When you were young, you girded yourself and walked where you wanted to go; but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands and another will gird you and take you where you would rather not go (Jn 21:18).

On an obvious level, this applies. Others do take me, not always when and where I prefer. I no longer have the freedom to choose.

But even more, Jesus was telling Peter how he was to die and thus glorify God. Jesus says to me:

"I am telling you the same thing, only your death is inch by inch, day by day. You are not being crucified upside down in public like Peter was, but on many little daily occurrences, unnoticed because they are so ordinary and commonplace. And your death and dying includes the acceptance of the whole ongoing process."

This includes fewer choices, unrealistic expectations (my own and others’), assistance unavailable or refused, and being at least gracious (if I cannot be entirely grateful) for the unwelcome aid others have decided I need or want.

I realize that these social situations are not unique to me, but are terribly familiar to everyone. I am also aware that a disabled person is more vulnerable because these particular circumstances might hold the only options possible.

A disabled person must stay with it. He or she often does not have a choice to just go away and try to forget it all, or put it off until later, or flee the scene temporarily to give some "space" to all parties. There are fewer outs in a tight situation.

What does all this mean in the nitty-gritty? For me it means a desire and a necessity to be more faithful in prayer. It means keeping a watchful eye that self-pity, always eager to pounce, stays well behind me. I can always feel when its shadow starts to creep up over my shoulder.

Frequent confession gives me a special peace, and within my heart, which has been broken in many ways, a deep reconciliation with God, my brothers and sisters, and the universe.

In the space that has been carved out of my heart, Jesus pours his blood, his life. He helps me glorify him because I experience as never before how I depend on him.

I believe he is transforming all my griefs and my dyings into deeper peace, deeper love, deeper hope.

Even if, by a miracle, I were to be totally healed tomorrow, I know there would be no turning back.