Count it all joy, my brothers

when you meet trials of various kinds…

James 1:2-3

Count it all joy

Nobody likes this verse.

Well, it’s not that we don’t like it. We just see trials as anything but joyful.

Facing trials and “Counting it all joy…” feels like swallowing sand paper-rough and painful.

St. James seems insensitive to a person’s pain and suffering. Like he’s dismissing the anguish trials cause as irrelevant.

What we want to do is the exact opposite. We want to “Count it all misery when your life doesn’t give you the ease and prosperity you want.” No. The life I expected.

A friend felt the need to give me a framed copy of this verse many years ago. Not sure why I just didn’t stick it away in a drawer so I could ignore those words.

Yet, it sat on my dresser for years.

Those words beckoned me to meditate on them, to make them mine in my heart and mind.

Adversity

The very first word forces us to categorize our adversities. They are either one thing or another.

Are adversities a joy or a misery? The natural and emotional response to the callous intrusion of trials is to resolutely fling them into the Misery Bucket.

But no, St. James intstructs me to place my affliction in the Joy Bucket.

Every time.

He left no room for argument. The audacity.

James 1:2-5 was yet unknown to me at twelve years of age. Many years would pass before God brings an uderstanding and acceptance of this for me.

Facing various trials…

My 12th birthday was celebrated in the usual way in my family. A birthday party with friends over, presents and the traditional cake and candles.

The Trial of Physical Dependence

The next day my dad had me helping him load into the back of his truck left over bricks piled out in the back yard. He was a home builder. We had just moved into a house he built on our property just outside of town. I was a daddy’s girl, liked being outside, so helping him was no chore.

The plan for the day was to unload the bricks at the barn. After that, we planned to feed the horses. Then, we intended to go horseback riding. He unloaded the bricks and fed the horses, but we didn’t go riding. Picking up the individual bricks became difficult for me. My fingers muscles would not grasp the brick. But I didn’t say anything to dad.

Being the kid, it was my job to unlock the gate and push it open. He then would drive through to the barn. By the time we got to the barn gate, I had lost all movement in my fingers. I realized when I attempted to manipulate the lock on the gate but couldn’t. I kept trying to make my fingers work, but they wouldn’t obey me. He noticed my struggle and unlocked it himself.

Knowing something wasn’t right, Dad quickly finished unloading the bricks, fedding the horses, and we headed for the house a short distance away. Mom had lunch ready when we arrived home. She fed me since my fingers could not hold a utensil. Mom sent me to go lay down while they called my doctor. The carpet the carpet seemed unusually thick as I made my way from the kitchen to my bedroom, grabbing my toes and feet. My weakening legs made my gait slow and unsteady. The doctor told them he would meet them at the local hospital emergency room. By that time, Dad had to carry me to the car since I could not set up or move my legs at all. Complete paralysis from my chest down took less than an hour.

The doctors at the Bartlesville emergency room knew this problem required specialists that our small town did not have. I was taken to a larger hospital in Tulsa. The team of doctors included a pediatrician, pediatric neurologist, orthopedist and physical therapists. The diagnosis was Transverse Myelitis. That is a blood clot lodged in the spinal cord. You’ve never heard of it. It was such a rare affliction that none of my doctors had seen a case of it. Etiology unknown. Prognosis unknown. Treatment options were limited to steroids and physical therapy.

Wanting more hopeful answers to their questions, my parents took me to the famous Mayo Clinic for a second opinion. Up to that time, the medical team at Mayo had not seen a case of this in a child. The team confirmed all the Tulsa physicians’ diagnosis, prognosis and limited course of treatment.

The take-away for me from both teams: there’s not much to do for you except physical therapy to prevent muscle contractures.

Go home and do the best you can.

The Trial of a New Category

Joyful that no muscles from in my trunk, hips, legs, feet, toes and fingers moved?

Joyful that I may live the rest of my life completely dependent on someone to feed me, dress me, bathe me, push me around ina wheelchair?

Joyful that life as I knew was gone?

No, no, and no.

The world suddenly changed my category as a human. I no longer belonged in the “normal” category. “Abnormal” now categorized me.

I did not consider that all joyful.

The Trial of Adapting to Physical Limitations

I came home from the hospital confinded to a wheelchair. A physical therapist at the local outpatient clinic worked with me three times a week on balance, walking, and finger function. My physical therapist used electrical stimulation to “jump start” muscle contractions of my thumbs. He applied a probe to the largest muscle of the thumb, then sent an electric impulse, attempting to facilitate movement. Intensity of the current started very low, gradually increasing since the low intensity resulted in no movement. Being a child and unfamiliar with medical treatments, I assumed must endure whatever pain the treatment caused. The intensity continued to increase until the pain caused tears to flow down the sides of my face. When the therapist noticed my tears, he stopped. Unfortunately, sustained use of this technique did not prove successful in facilitating return of the opposible thumb movement.

No occupational therapist worked in my hometown. My parents did not know occupational therapists trained to treat hand dusfunction even existed. So, “rehabilitation” on my hands and fingers happened only through my attempts to complete everyday tasks.

Since the only functional movement returned to the last three fingers of my right hand, relearning how to complete any task requiring fingers progressed clumbsily and slowly.

Simple tasks previously completed without a thought like buttoning, tying shoe laces, zipping a coat, or griping a pen or utensil now became an exercise in adaptation.

The Trial of Unwanted Orthotics

After two years of therapy, I managed to get back on my feet somewhat. My left foot drooped when took a step despite my conscience effort to elevate as my foot moved forward. This :dropped foot” required me wearing a brace (called an AFO for ankle-foot-orthosis) on my left ankle. The brace had to be attached to a “lace-up, sturdy shoe”. State of the art AFO’s and shoes in the 1970’s are pictured below.

Do you know how excited I felt showing up to middle school wearing that?

I felt like a twelve-year old girl Frankenstein.

The trail of isolation and lonliness

Feelings of isolation moved in quickly once I returned home after the long stay in the hospital that summer. Just a couple of months passed and my sisters returned to school. PL 94-142 had yet to be enacted, and my school only offered homebound education. A teacher came to my home after he got off from school, teaching me all the core subjects. As a result, I spent most of my days alone. Mom was there, of course taking care of me, but she had a house to run.

By the time school rolled around again the next fall, my mobility improved enough that I returned to school, but only for one half the day. Returning to school required starting from scratch for making new friends.

Thirteen-year-old girls don’t stay in one place very long making spontaneous encounters outside the classroom few. Other girls hung out in the halls, migrating from one locker to another or moving in and out of clumps of chatting girls, like flock of sheep milling around in a pen. But for me, social exchanges with other girls remained confined to the person sitting next to me class.

Coupled with that, the number of opportunities for socialization divided in half. I had sisters only. So how boys played and enteracted presented a mystery to me. I didn’t feel comfortable enteracting with them. So I didn’t.

To make it even more difficult, I am by nature painfully shy.

Eventually friendships developed and feelings of isolation subsided.

One day at a time, one year at a time, God put my life back together-just in a way I never imagined. Joy grew slowly, one brief glimmer at a time.

The platform…

Various groups in my community and in my church began asking me to speak. A couple of different local organizations honored me. I recieved the Bartlesville, Oklahoma’s Mayor’s Committee’s Handicapped Person of the Year when I was 24. Later, the named Pilot Club of Bartlesville, Oklahoma’s named me the Handicapped Person of the Year when I was about 30.

I recieved the letter from the from the Mayor’s Committee and thought it was a joke. My parents were at my apartment that day. After showing them letter, I asked them what they thought about it. My parents knew the man that had written the letter and about that committee. They convinced me it was legitimate. How the committee knew about me was a mystery to me. I couldn’t imagine why they had selected me. I accepted but felt very awkward the night of the award ceremony. Surrounding me were four much older and accomplished honorees recieving various awards for service in the handicapped population.

They had really done something.

I didn’t think I had.

Because God is gracious bringing wisdom to my mind and joy to my heart. I am who I am because of two things. My “various trials” couples with God in whose presence is the fullness of joy.

Counting all my trials as joy. Well, that came slowly one Jesus-powered day at a time at a time, one milestone at a time.

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Have unexpected circumstances affected your child?

Do you have circumstances that you count as misery?

Is parenting demanding more than you’ve got?

Let me know how I can encourage you friend.

Estimated reading time: 9 minutes

• From Impairment to Inspiration: A Life Transformed
• Prepare Your Special Needs Child for Employment
• The Test in Adversity: Count It All Joy, Part 2
• The Test in Adversity: Count It All Joy, Part 3
• Perseverance with Severe Physical Disabilities: Lessons From My Dad