Some weeks go somewhat normal, well, at least “normal” for me, which is already its own special category of chaos. And then there are weeks like last one, where I’m convinced I landed smack dab in an episode of “Punk’d.”
I half-expected someone from my family (probably Zach, Danielle, or Jaiden) to pop out and yell, “You’ve been Punk’d!” Cameras, Ashton Kutcher, the whole crew. But nope. No prank show. No hidden camera. Just a fairly typical day in the circus that is my life.
It all started after a busy day working in the library and kicking off the Scholastic Book Fair. I came home tired but determined to take my mom to our weekly Bible study. I rushed through dinner, threw on leggings and a sweatshirt, got Mom into the van as Steve pressed the ramp button when the ramp said, “I think I shall take the night off.”
It simply would not budge. He tried the manual override, our “in case of emergency back-up,” and even that decided to take a vacation. It just sat there like, “Yeah… nope. I’m off the clock too.”
In the end, Steve took my mom to Bible study while I stayed home. I’ll be honest, I secretly enjoyed my very rare time alone. I love Jesus and the ladies at our study, but that unexpected hour of quiet felt downright sacred.
ONE hour later, I was sitting peacefully in my wheelchair when suddenly… it MOVED.
Straight up.
Raising me upward.
BY ITSELF.
Then it tilts me back like I’m about to be launched into space. NASA, if you’re hiring, my chair is apparently ready for the paraplegic tour.
So there I am, arms flailing, feet in the air, yelling, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” before it finally dawns on me to hit the power button and end the spontaneous wheelchair uprising. Because nothing says “relaxing evening at home” like being attacked by your own mobility device.
Now I’m stuck in the air like I’m sitting in the world’s worst recliner, no longer comfortable but contorting my body into shapes no disabled, chubby woman should ever attempt. I’m pretty sure Cirque du Soleil would’ve taken one look at me and said, “Ma’am… that is not in the choreography. And let’s not even attempt to go to wardrobe with the angles we are viewing.”
Seriously, was I being Punk’d?
My chair fortunately still drove so I went to my bedroom to roll onto my bed. Let me tell you, when you’re paralyzed, rolling out of a rogue, tilting wheelchair becomes a whole prayer meeting. I was whispering, “Okay Jesus… please let this bed catch me,” while doing the most ungraceful trust fall known to mankind.
Thankfully, the bed did its job, unlike every piece of machinery I own. Of course, it is wire free!
I did try several times to fix the chair “girl” style. I turned it off and on and off and on again. But no luck.
Unfortunately life doesn’t pause for dramatic, renegade chair shenanigans because the very next day I had to go to work. My ramp might’ve been on vacation, but I definitely wasn’t. Real life said, “Glad you survived your adventure — now get moving.”
But the remaining issue was in one hour, both my van and my wheelchair quit on me, and I can’t walk. I rely on those two very important modes of transport to get anywhere. My chair is my legs.
So Morgan swooped in to rescue me with her three little boys, my manual chair, and her trademark “we’re doing this” determination to get me to work. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hoist myself into her front seat using just my arms, so where did I end up?
On. The. Floor.
In the back.
Surrounded by car seats.
Where Morgan usually puts her grocery order.
And while I’m down there, my youngest grandson, “bless his sweet little heart,” (said in a Southern tone) kept “fixing” my hair with his Goldfish-dusted fingers. Nothing says glamour like cheddar crumbs being massaged into your scalp while your hair slowly morphs into Cyndi Lauper’s spiky 80’s punk masterpiece. Fantastic for Halloween. Less fantastic for a book fair.
Just when we finally had ourselves all gathered in the van, Winnie (the dog) bolted from the vehicle and decided it was the perfect moment to play a spontaneous game of tag. Morgan leaped out of the car while Winnie dodged, weaved, and sprinted like she was training for the Puppy Olympics.
Ten minutes later, Morgan finally caught her and loaded her into the car, frazzled, sweaty, and over this mission, while I sat in the back, surrounded by car seats, laughing hysterically at our carnival spectacular!
On the way, Morgan sighed and said, “This feels like a country song.” And without missing a beat, Lee Michael, the dramatic performer, burst into song from the back row:
“Her van broke…
Her chair broke…
And the dog ran awaaaayyyy!”
More laughter.
If you need a laugh, just picture me riding to work like cargo while Colsen styled my hair with cheesy fingers to the original country hit by Lee Michael while Oakley gave a play-by-play of everything he saw out of his window.
Honestly? Was Ashton Kutcher nearby? I’m still giggling every time I think about that bus ride to school.
When we arrived at school, Morgan had to push me up a giant ramp, hauling my bags behind her like a pack mule, with three little boys waddling behind us like little ducklings trying to keep up. All so I could get to work on time and pretend I lived a normal, put-together life.
But you know what?
We made it.
Somehow.
When I look back on this week, complete with malfunctioning ramps, rogue wheelchairs, Goldfish hairstyling, runaway dogs, and country ballads, I can’t help but laugh. It was stressful, yes. Exhausting, absolutely. But somehow it was also beautiful because woven right through all the chaos were moments of kindness, compassion, and grace.
People stepped in. God showed up.
And that combination is what keeps me going. Every time life gets hard.
This journey of caregiving, working, and navigating life from a wheelchair isn’t easy. Some days feel impossibly heavy. But then a moment of humor lightens the weight, or someone’s kindness lifts a burden I didn’t know how to carry. And every single time, I’m reminded that God is in the middle of it all. Steady, present, and good.
So this blog is dedicated to the chaos, the laughter, the grace, and the people God uses to hold us together. One wild week at a time.
And to the person who offered me an undeserved, grace-filled gift of love through this crazy time… thank you. It made me cry and became a living reminder of God’s own gift of undeserved grace on the cross. Please know that we are very grateful.
Also thank you to Morgan, who showed up with her whole heart and dove headfirst into the madness of the morning just to get me where I needed to be. Her kindness, strength, and servant’s heart are gifts I hope to never take for granted.
Just Differently Abled 