This is the Way God Made Me

“Want to take your shoes off, Kadie?” My three-year old niece asks.

She squats in front of me, tugging at one of my shoes.

Phrases that I used at childhood playdates, pool parties, even church camps, float through my mind.

I have Cerebral Palsy.

I can’t take off my shoes.

My braces help me walk.

This is the way God made me.

“This is the way God made me” was the line that I used when non-disabled children asked what happened to me, why I walked the way I did, or what those things were sticking out of my shoes. The words would sounded apologetic, never proud.

Those words hang on my lips now as my shoe thuds on the floor.

My niece looks down at a leg brace, which had been hidden by my shoe. “Um, I need help,” she says, plainly. My niece gazes down at the silver screws, the black plaster, the cushioned straps crossing below my knee and then again across the top of my foot.

“This is the way God made me,” I think anxiously.

I feel a familiar pang that I have felt since childhood—the terror of being cast apart. I realize that I am afraid. Afraid of my own vulnerability. I don’t know how this sweet, inquisitive little human will react. Has my niece made the connection that Aunt Katie will always walk slowly with a side-to-side gait? Does she realize that my body functions differently than hers? Will she care?

I fight my instinct to hide my differences. My instinct is always to hide my disability.

“This is the way God made me. And God is good,” I think.

With more confidence, I reach down and pull on the Velcro straps of my brace.  The crackling, ripping sound of the Velcro gets my niece’s attention.

“These are leg braces,” I say, warmly. “My braces help me walk and stand and be strong.”

My niece traces the buckle on my brace. There is no burst of emotion. No recoil. She looks at them, thinking. She places the brace on the floor and moves on.

Later that afternoon, my niece barrels toward me, lugging two leg braces in her arms. The braces look almost as big as she is.

“I got your braces, Kadie!” She says, cheerfully. Without hesitation, I sit down and show my niece how to put on my braces.

My niece traces the silver buckle that had captivated her attention earlier.

“That’s a buckle,” she says, smiling.

“That’s right,” I say. “Buckles go on braces!”

“This is the way God made me,” I think again. This time, the words I hear in my mind are not apologetic, not filled with apprehension. They are filled with gratitude and love.

How often do we hide ourselves, scared of our own vulnerability? What would it mean to be transparent? Just what might we gain when we embrace the fact that we are fearfully and wonderfully made?