I’d grown up with it, so you’d think by seventh grade I’d have been used to it. But every year, fall loomed ahead like a black shadow in the back of my mind all summer. My handicap had kept me from making many solid friendships, and my one consolation was my cousin Suzanne. We went to see her every summer, but because she lived in Virginia and we lived in California that was the only time of the year I saw her. The rest of the year I lived for her e-mails every night; they were my one confidante.

It’s not that school was bad. I just couldn’t make friends. Other guys my age were doing sports and going to dances and making jokes in class. And they weren’t mean or anything. But you could see how they stared at my wheelchair, how their eyes read like books of their pity or embarrassment or aversion.

That’s where Suzanne was different. She wanted to talk to me, to hear what I had to say, even when I had trouble speaking. Her patience was immeasurable. She wasn’t embarrassed to go out places with me or push my wheelchair around the mall if I was feeling weak that day. There was no pity in her eyes, no shame. She just enjoyed my company.

We went to church every Sunday in Virginia and every Wednesday night for teen prayer group meetings and service projects. I met some people there, but Suzanne was the one I clung to. But she was so happy, so trusting, so at peace, so… alive, when she was at church. I began to wonder what it was I was missing out on.

Church was not a part of my life back home. Dad was never home, always traveling or with patients at the center. And Mom, well, Mom was hard to deal with. To her I was the failure, the defection of the family. While Brooke was off at college majoring in physiology, breaking school and state track records left and right, I was home trying to make it through life without being able to walk. I suppose with her expectations of the perfect son I just hadn’t matched up. Oh, sure, she was nice to me. But did she love me, love me like a son? It was hard to say, and even harder to tell. My name was not Matthew to her. My name was Spina Bifida.

As the seventh grade year began it was rough. We had moved from southern Oregon to northern California for my Dad’s work in the middle of sixth grade, and the few friendships I had had from grade school were long gone as I tried to manage middle school. Sure, there was the occasional jeer at my wheelchair, but somehow I let it bounce off of me and just roll away. But still, inside my frustration and loneliness grew, with only Suzanne to confide in.

Slowly and painfully I managed to make a couple friends. I first saw Jordan a couple days after school had started at the local Wal-Mart. Somehow we got to talking about school, and we found that we only lived a couple streets away from each other. After that, Jordan would occasionally come over to talk or help me with my homework. Though I didn’t feel secure around him for awhile, there was something in his eyes, something that reminded me of Suzanne, that eventually won me over. Jordan’s twin brother, Brett, and another friend of his, Kevin, were introduced to me later at school. Together they slowly peeled back the barriers I’d put between myself and my peers for so long.

Of course, Suzanne knew about this from the start. I could almost see her smile as she answered so positively each time I wrote of a funny thing Kevin had said or of a game we’d played or of a book Jordan had read that sounded interesting, and had she read it and was it any good? My life, though riddled with doctor’s visits due to my latex allergy, was gradually getting better and as my seventh grade year ended I almost wanted to go back to school.

That summer we couldn’t go to Virginia for half of vacation because my grandpa died in Illinois and we had to help Grandma out. Poor Grandma, Grandpa was her world. He died of an aggressive cancer, as so many others in my family, and it was especially rough for Grandma to watch him deteriorate like that. Eventually, being the strong woman she was, she managed to carry on alone, but we planned to try and get out there more often, to see her and check up on her.

When we finally did get to Virginia, we had a wonderful time. Suzanne’s big thing that summer was hiking, and on days when I wasn’t feeling too weak she’d push me around on the paved walking trails and we’d take in the beautiful summer weather and foliage. On rainy days or if I wasn’t feeling up to it, we stayed home and did puzzles and baked cookies and yelled out the answers to gameshows on TV. I could tell that Suzanne would have rather been outside, but even if I told her to go ahead and go, that I’d be fine, she refused. She’d smile and say, “No, hun, it just wouldn’t be the same without you there too.” Her easy smile, her caring, non-pitying eyes... all exemplified her wonderful heart.

But as all summers do, this summer drew to a close. The night before school started Suzanne e-mailed me to wish me luck. “I hope you get nice teachers in classes with your friends,” she wrote. And then, “I’m praying for ya’.” Someone was praying for me? Really? For what? How long had she been praying for me? I was intrigued, and also, somehow... glad. Glad in a weird way. I knew I believed in God and all, but that someone else would want to ask Him to help me, to watch me... I felt... glad.

Eighth grade continued as my seventh grade year had finished. Jordan, Brett, and Kevin came home with me after school, and stayed for awhile to help study or watch TV or just hang out. Then in September, Kevin’s parents abruptly agreed to get a divorce. Sadly, Kevin’s custody would be given to his father, who would be moving to Chicago over spring break. Of course we tried to relish our last months together, but we couldn’t help but feel saddened.

About three months before Kevin was going to leave, he came over early Sunday morning, and asked, “Would you like to go to church with me and my family?” I was hesitant, and thought about saying I didn’t feel up to it. But I don’t know what came over me as I said, “Hey, yeah! When do I need to be ready to go?” He gave me an hour to get ready, told me that dress was casual, and began to run home to get ready himself. As I thanked him and closed the door, fear gripped my heart. What had I gotten myself into? It would be the same as it always was meeting new people; tolerating the sideways glances and double takes, explaining to innumerable people that I had spina bifida and what it was and this, that, and the other thing. But Suzanne’s e-mail came back to me. “I’m praying for ya’.” Surely God would be with me if Suzanne had been praying for me.

So in an hour I was with Kevin and his dad and Brett in their suburban, driving to Trinity Bible Church, where, consequently, Jordan also attended. The service was nice, especially the readings; I knew little things from the Bible stories in children’s books, but the actual words and wording of the ‘adult’ translation opened something up to me. It’s hard to describe, but... I felt as though the lector was speaking to me, directly to me, with a message absolutely... phenomenal. I had felt something like it at church in Virginia, but now everything just... fell into place. I suddenly wanted to know just exactly what the Bible actually had to say, if the rest of it was the beautiful poetry and the striking message that I’d heard before but had just realized to appreciate.

Afterwards we went to get doughnuts at the community center, and settled down for youth group. I was excited, though a little nervous yet again. So many others had judged me before they knew so, so many had not been able to see beyond my wheelchair... As the group of 80 or so teenagers quieted down and the youth pastor got up to speak, I tried to calm my fears and wiped my sweaty palms on my khaki pants.

“Good morning all,” the pastor began. “Kevin’s brought us a visitor today, so before we get started let’s get him introduced.” He smiled at me and Kevin... something about his smile... I immediately trusted him. He motioned Kevin and me towards him, “So c’mon down!” I smiled, and turned to Kevin, who was smiling too. Kevin helped push some chairs out of my way as I pushed my way along to the front of the community center. Kevin began for me. “This is Matthew Reid, guys, and he goes to school at Smokey Creek Middle with me and Brett and Jordan and Steve and Kristen and Lauren and Rick and everybody else from SCMS. He’s in my grade, and, uh... Matt?” It didn’t take a neural scientist to figure out he wanted to know if I wanted to tell them just what was wrong with me or what I needed the wheelchair for or however else people worded the question.

“Hi,” I said, a little shyly. “Yeah, I’m Matt, you can just call me that, everyone does... But, yeah, you probably want to know what the wheelchair is for and all that, huh? Yeah, I’ve got spina bifida, and I don’t have a really well connected spinal cord, so my legs are pretty weak and I have to use a wheelchair. But, I mean, it really isn’t that big of a deal now. I mean, I can’t play sports or anything, obviously, but I can still do most things the way normal people do.” I turned to the pastor and Kevin. They smiled. I turned to look out on the ‘audience.’ They were smiling to. Not like a ‘you’re-such-an-idiot’ smile, but like a ‘I’m-impressed-you’ve-overcome-so-much’ smile, like a ‘welcome-to-our-church’ smile. I smiled too. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

“Well we’re glad you’re here.” The pastor said. Kevin helped me back to our seats, and the pastor went on. “Today we’re talking about...” apparently they had planned what they were gonna do, as everybody yelled out “The ‘F’ word!” The pastor smiled, although I was a bit taken aback. Okay, so honestly I was immediately freaked out of my mind and the adrenaline began to pump through my system for the hundredth time that morning. “Yes,” the pastor continued, “Today we’re talking about the ‘F’ word: faith.” I sighed with relief. Everybody laughed.

As Kevin dropped me back home, we stood on my doorstep and he asked if I’d liked the service and the youth group. “Yeah,” I said, “It was great. Everybody was really cool about not being too curious or staring or anything.” Then I kinda shyly asked, “So, would it be okay with you... I mean, if it’s inconvenient, it’s fine, but, uh... can I come to church next week?” Again Kevin smiled. “No problem, Matt. We’ll pick you up the same time.” He turned to leave. “Oh, and call me if you need help with your algebra.” I froze, suddenly remembering the project we had due.

“Thanks,” I said. “I totally forgot.”

He smiled, and laughed a bit. “Better get crackin’. See ya’ later.” He waved goodbye.

“Bye,” I said, and shut the door.

And so it began. Suzanne was thrilled that I’d started going to church. Her e-mails continued to mention that I was in her prayers, and I began to pray for her as well. At first I didn’t know if I was praying the right way or if there was some certain way you were supposed to pray on your own, but when I brought it up with Suzanne she said she laughed, and she replied that you could just talk to God and He’d listen. I e-mailed her back that it didn’t sound very high-and-mighty-like to just talk to God, but she reassured me that it was fine and that the Holy Spirit would speak through my prayers to the Father. ‘Like a translator?’ I asked. ‘Sorta like a translator, yeah.’ She replied. And so it began.

The months flew by, and all too soon Kevin had to leave. Jordan, Brett, and I went to see him off at the airport. We were waiting at the terminal, when Kevin reached in his luggage and pulled out three small wrapped packages. “These are for you guys,” he said. We all looked at each other, and then took the boxes, thanked Kevin, and began to open them.

Inside each of ours was an identical silver cross necklace. We all looked up from our gifts at Kevin, who was vainly holding back tears, as he whispered, “They’re just like mine.” He reached into his shirt and held up another identical cross necklace. Just then, right before we lost our composure, Kevin’s plane began boarding.

We all embraced. ‘Call us from your new house!’ ‘Don’t forget to e-mail us!’ ‘Have a safe flight!’ and various other good-byes were shouted down the boarding ramp as Kevin, turned back, tried not to cry, waved, and disappeared from view.

True, we all missed Kevin. But we still had each other, and with almost daily e-mails from Kevin as well as Suzanne, the distance between us was a little more bearable. We planned to visit in the summer before I went to see my grandma, and we could hardly wait to see his new house and school and all. With Kevin gone I no longer had any friends in my English class, which was homeroom. I would usually sit in the back, reading or listening to my CD player, trying not to bother anyone and trying not to be bothered. Despite my sociability with Jordan and Brett, I was still very shy, and as it always had been I couldn’t make friends. I was just so scared... I really don’t know why even, besides that I was afraid they would make fun of me or something. I just felt so different, so isolated... As though I had no one to relate to.

Eventually spring picture day rolled around. I hated picture day. Every year it was the same, the picture person moved the chair or stool aside, helped me wheel around the photo equipment, lowered the camera, snapped a photo, and then had to reset everything, grumbling the whole way... let’s just say I’d never had a good experience with school pictures. The fact that my little prison was in every one of my school pictures was demoralizing and degrading.

So spring picture day came, and I was alone in homeroom. No one to console me, no one to help me, no one to confide in. I had e-mailed Suzanne about it, and she said that maybe I should ask someone to help me out of my wheelchair and onto the stool for my picture. I wished I could. As always, she mentioned that I was in her prayers. I wanted those prayers to bear fruit so badly...

As we all filed down to the lecture hall, picture order-forms in hand, the knots in my stomach tightened. Would the photographer be annoyed at the inconvenience? Would my classmates sneer amongst themselves about me needing such special treatment for something as simple as a school picture? As we came to the lecture hall, I made sure to be the last in line. The photographer was a seemingly nice lady, mid-30s, with a nice smile but a hurry-up attitude. “Feet on the arrows, hands on your laps... now smile... CLICK... Thank you, next please...” was all she seemed to say. She looked tired. I felt for her.

Slowly the line progressed, although it was all too soon for me when it was my turn. Everyone else had left, and it was just the photographer and myself alone in the linoleum and drop-in ceiling lecture hall. I wheeled around to her, and she smiled. There was something about her smile... I relaxed.

“Hello there,” she said, pleasantly. Then she cocked her head with a questioning air and said, “You gonna take your picture in your wheelchair?”

“I always have before,” I said, avoiding her eyes. Rather embarrassed and wishing she would just take my picture, I tried to wheel around the table for order forms. She seemed nice but my wheelchair was a touchy subject and I wanted this over with.

Then she crouched down in front of me, smiled and asked, kindly, “Would you like me to help you onto the stool?”

I was completely taken aback. Take a picture of me without my wheelchair? Could she lift me? Was this really happening?

I nodded, smiling slightly, afraid to shatter the dream.

She helped me around the equipment as had always been, and then, picking me up under the arms and with a strength she didn’t appear to possess, she actually lifted me onto the stool. I sat there for a minute, trying to actually realize that I wasn’t in my wheelchair. Fear gripped me. I started to fall off. I was falling! Quickly the photographer helped steady me, and then she smiled and went about getting my feet in the right position.

“Okay, now hold your hands in your lap... That’s it... Okay, now smile!” I don’t think I’ve ever smile so big in my life. For a split second I was normal. As I slid back into my wheelchair, I noticed that the photographer was wearing a silver cross...

Later that day on the afternoon announcements, our principal, Mrs. Sheilds, came over the intercom and said, “And thank you to our photographer for school pictures today, Mr. Harold Muller.” Harold? I thought.

We got pictures that May, and I brought them home and put my slice of dignity on the counter. I was watching TV when my mom walked in, opened them, and smiled, tears welling in her eyes. She came up to me, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “I love you.” I barely held back the tears.