Moments of Grace

Hands—I absolutely hate the look of my hands. They are genetically large hands, but they are also extremely beat up from using them for daily activities while not having the coordination necessary to be gentle enough not to scrape them up. If my fingernails get too long, my clenching hand spasms will cause my nails to cut my skin. When I type on a computer instead of a touchscreen, I must single-poke keys through a keyguard on an adaptive keyboard with my knuckles. Having my left hand in a fist allows me more efficient control over what I type than when I type with my fingertips. As a result, the knuckles on my left hand are swollen and covered with callouses. Not as attractive as one might like.

Hands—I need my big, tough hands from the moment I awake. God knew. As much as I hate their appearance, to the extent that I avoid nail polish to keep from drawing attention to them, I love my hands. My bed has a metal headboard with bars that I can easily grasp. When I awake, I grasp my headboard, pivot my legs over to the edge of the bed, and pull myself up before standing to pivot to my wheelchair that is parked parallel to my bed. Even with all of my bouts of depression, I have never failed to get out of bed. I consider this a great feat. Sometimes it took a few hours longer. Sometimes I had to tell myself, “Don’t think about what is next, just get out of bed.” Other times I would pray in desperation, “God, please just give me the strength to get out of bed.” By God’s grace, I have never spent an entire day in bed due to one of my depression episodes.

Maybe I should mention that there is typically another person in the room when I awake. Hello! Nothing like having company first thing in the morning. Once I literally drag myself out of bed, my caregiver assists me in dressing, which I cannot accomplish on my own even if efficiency were not a factor. We then move to the bathroom sink, where she brushes my teeth, styles my hair, and applies my makeup before placing the jewelry on me that I select. Until finding my permanent assistant, the mornings were a gamble. If my caregiver was talented with hair and make-up, I gazed in the mirror with relieved pleasure and confidence for the day. If she was not as talented, I found solace in the lack of public appearances of the day or the fact that my next caregiver might be skilled enough to “fix it.”

Once I am physically ready for the day, we proceed to the kitchen where she prepares and feeds me breakfast. I often wonder what it would feel like to walk out to my kitchen alone, cook an egg, toast bread, and sit down to enjoy a quiet devotional at my dining room table over breakfast. As it is, I either have to invite her to join in on my devotions to avoid awkward silence or have my devotions after her departure.

Since founding my own law firm, and hiring Sharalee, who I consider a relatively permanent assistant, my mornings have gotten better. Not only do I wake up later, but I never dread having to make morning conversation. Seeing her cheerful face and hearing her chipper voice almost instantaneously sets a bright tone for the day—albeit she has already been up taking care of her family for hours before I even open my eyes.

Until I founded my own law firm, early mornings were a part of life. Most caregivers did not try to make conversation first thing in the morning because, like me, they were not typically morning people either. Still, every few years, I had a caregiver who either felt the need to make conversation or simply enjoyed morning chatter. One time I had a caregiver who would continually ask me, “What has God been teaching you lately?” Mind you that many times this question would surface before we even made our way to the breakfast table. Sometimes she would ask this well-intended question while the toothbrush was still in my mouth. This would give my tired, crabby, morning brain enough time to come up with the secretly humorous response of “patience.” Of course, only God and I knew what I meant.

Not all peppy morning caregivers annoy me forever. One of my-- now--best friends, Stephanie, began working for me during my senior year of college—August 2012. On her first morning shift, she flung open the door to my dorm room, excitedly exclaiming in her loud joyful voice, “IT’S A GREAT DAY TO BE ALIVE!” Note that this was during training week for student leaders, meaning that we were up at 7:00 a.m. and awake until 2:00 a.m. preparing for the upcoming school year. (I am sure we also spent a fair amount of time goofing off in the way that college students tend to do.) Regardless, I was not only tired, but also concerned about having this wake-up call for the next nine months. After she said, “It's a great day to be alive!” I promptly flung the blanket over my head and said, “...or dead.” Either I was more comfortable with her than most from the beginning, or I lacked some of the tactfulness I have now.