Wheelchair Best Quotes

The bible says no man can take your joy. That means no person can make you live with a negative attitude. No circumstance, no adversity can force you to live in despair. As Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of wheelchair-bound President Franklin D. Roosevelt, often said, ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

I am normal. I belong. I have a friend who can kick ass from a wheelchair. I live independently and get good grades. I'm an excellent lover. Like I said. I'm awesome. I'm Emmet David Washington. Train Man. The best autistic Blues Brother on the block.

Large metal objects moving at high speeds have such an impact on me that I just get paralyzed. Honk if you’re horny, and find men in wheelchairs sexy.

My wheelchair was the key to seeing all this happen—especially since God’s power always shows up best in weakness. So here I sit … glad that I have not been healed on the outside, but glad that I have been healed on the inside. Healed from my own self-centered wants and wishes.

I think timing is better left up to God to decide then religious leaders. I once met a man that brought his wife flowers in the hospital. They held hands, kissed and were as affectionate as any cute couple could be. They were both in their eighties. I asked them how long they were married. I expected them to tell me fifty years or longer. To my surprise, they said only five years. He then began to explain to me that he was married thirty years to someone that didn’t love him, and then he remarried a second time only to have his second wife die of cancer, two years later. I looked at my patient (his wife) sitting in the wheelchair next to him smiling. She added that she had been widowed two times. Both of her marriages lasted fifteen years. I was curious, so I asked them why they would even bother pursuing love again at their age. He looked at me with astonishment and said, “Do you really think that you stop looking for a soulmate at our age? Do you honestly believe that God would stop caring about how much I needed it still, just because I am nearing the end of my life? No, he left the best for last. I have lived through hell, but if I only get five years of happiness with this woman then it was worth the years of struggle I have been through.

When I can't ride anymore, I shall keep horses as long as I can hobble around with a bucket and a wheelbarrow. When I can't hobble, I shall roll my wheelchair out to the fence of the field where my horses graze and watch them. Whether by wheelbarrow or wheelchair, I will do likewise to keep alive-as long as I can do as best I can-my connection with horses.

When you deny someone the opportunity to help you, you deny them joy in life.

I didn't know. Not until I got here and you told me. I had no clue." I watched his face. I watched his face so damn carefully... "I would have been here in a wheelchair if I had know," he claimed, steadily, quietly. "On crutches. On my hands and knees, I would have been here.

Loving and serving others is the only way we can push through the darkness that life will undoubtedly give us. Acts of unconditional love shine a light into the lives of both the giver and the receiver. A light no darkness can hide from.

There is a cyborg hierarchy. They like us best with bionic arms and legs. They like us Deaf with hearing aids, though they prefer cochlear implants. It would be an affront to ask the Hearing to learn sign language. Instead they wish for us to lose our language, abandon our culture, and consider ourselves cured. They like exoskeletons, which none of us use. They don’t count as cyborgs those of us who wear pacemakers or go to dialysis. Nor do they count those of us kept alive by machines, those of us made ambulatory by wheelchairs, those of us on biologics or antidepressants. They want us shiny and metallic and in their image.

The idea that humiliation is some capital crime of the spirit is a fiction. The sentences we hand down for losing control and succumbing to physical limits in life are arbitrary acts of self-loathing. All human beings have bodies that define their existence and which can veto the best-laid plans of the mind and soul.

By giving up my freedom, I am gaining more of it,

I have finally embraced my limitations and am beginning to recognize that my vulnerability is my greatest strength.

The world needs to know hope like this exists!

Breaking my neck was the best thing that ever happened to me. I have an Olympic medal. I've been to so many countries I would never have been, met so many people I would never have met. I've done more in the chair, ... than a whole hell of a lot of people who aren't in chairs.

Patrick and I have often found ourselves outmatched by our circumstances. But we've learned that if we live in fear and never try, if we never attempt something scary or daunting, we can't know what limits we possess. If we don't push ourselves, the only limits we face are the ones we place on ourselves, the ones we fabricate in our minds.

Last month, on a very windy day, I was returning from a lecture I had given to a group in Fort Washington. I was beginning to feel unwell. I was feeling increasing spasms in my legs and back and became anxious as I anticipated a difficult ride back to my office. Making matters worse, I knew I had to travel two of the most treacherous high-speed roads near Philadelphia – the four-lane Schuylkill Expressway and the six-lane Blue Route. You’ve been in my van, so you know how it’s been outfitted with everything I need to drive. But you probably don’t realize that I often drive more slowly than other people. That’s because I have difficulty with body control. I’m especially careful on windy days when the van can be buffeted by sudden gusts. And if I’m having problems with spasms or high blood pressure, I stay way over in the right hand lane and drive well below the speed limit. When I’m driving slowly, people behind me tend to get impatient. They speed up to my car, blow their horns, drive by, stare at me angrily, and show me how long their fingers can get. (I don't understand why some people are so proud of the length of their fingers, but there are many things I don't understand.) Those angry drivers add stress to what already is a stressful experience of driving. On this particular day, I was driving by myself. At first, I drove slowly along back roads. Whenever someone approached, I pulled over and let them pass. But as I neared the Blue Route, I became more frightened. I knew I would be hearing a lot of horns and seeing a lot of those long fingers. And then I did something I had never done in the twenty-four years that I have been driving my van. I decided to put on my flashers. I drove the Blue Route and the Schuylkyll Expressway at 35 miles per hour. Now…Guess what happened? Nothing! No horns and no fingers. But why? When I put on my flashers, I was saying to the other drivers, “I have a problem here – I am vulnerable and doing the best I can.” And everyone understood. Several times, in my rearview mirror I saw drivers who wanted to pass. They couldn’t get around me because of the stream of passing traffic. But instead of honking or tailgating, they waited for the other cars to pass, knowing the driver in front of them was in some way weak. Sam, there is something about vulnerability that elicits compassion. It is in our hard wiring. I see it every day when people help me by holding doors, pouring cream in my coffee, or assist me when I put on my coat. Sometimes I feel sad because from my wheelchair perspective, I see the best in people. But those who appear strong and invulnerably typically are not exposed to the kindness I see daily. Sometimes situations call for us to act strong and brave even when we don't feel that way. But those are a few and far between. More often, there is a better pay-off if you don't pretend you feel strong when you feel weak, or pretend that you are brave when you’re scared. I really believe the world might be a safer place if everyone who felt vulnerable wore flashers that said, “I have a problem and I’m doing the best I can. Please be patient!

C'mon Will! Let's give these fuckers something to talk about!" Suggestion on the part of a drunken Lou Clark, rooting for her beloved Will Traynor to advance his motorized wheelchair onto the dance floor, after the wedding ceremony between his former fiancé and his former best friend, while she plops herself onto his lap in her bright red dress and drapes her arms around him, his eyes staring straight at her cleavage!

That’s when I realized that, more often than not, the miracle isn’t the absence of struggle, disease, or pain; it is the presence of grace and certainty, the ability to face strife, the unknown, or a slow death, without fear. My obsession with divine intervention had distracted me from the truth that God had already intervened. We desperately want provision to make sense on our terms—bills paid, food on the table, and sickness taken away—but simply waiting on God and being angry when he doesn’t show up the way we want him to is a perverted sense of provision. Make no mistake, I believe that physical healings still happen. But God has made it pretty clear that while he answers prayers, those answers are based on his understanding, not our own; and when it comes to God’s provision for the world, we are the front lines. Or at least we should be.

God entered the yellow church on the disabled ramp. He was in a wheelchair too; He had once lost a woman too. He was silvery. Not the cheap, glittery silver of a banker’s BMW, but a muted, matte silver. Once, as He was gliding among the silvery stars with his silvery beloved, a gang of golden gods attacked them. When they were kids, God had once beaten one of them up, a short, skinny golden god who had now grown up and returned with his friends. The golden gods beat Him with golden clubs of sunlight and didn’t stop until they’d broken every bone in His divine body. It took Him years to recuperate. His beloved never did. She remained a vegetable. She could see and hear everything, but she couldn’t say a word. The silvery God decided to create a species in His own image so she could watch it to pass the time. That species really did resemble Him: battered and victimized like Him. And His silvery beloved stared wide-eyed at the members of that species for hours, stared and didn’t even shed a tear. 'What do you think,' the silvery God asked the yellow priest in frustration, 'that I created all of you like this because it's what I wanted? Because I'm some kind of pervert or sadist who enjoys all this suffering? I created you like this because this is what I know. It's the best I can do.

wheelchair-accessible front ramp, take a bit of getting used to, and some like the engineer never do get comfortable with them and use the less garish auditory side-doors; and the abundant sulcus-fissures and gyrus-bulges of the slick latex roof make rain-drainage complex and footing chancy at best, so there’s not a whole lot of recreational strolling up here, although a kind of safety-balcony of skull-colored polybutylene resin, which curves around the midbrain from the inferior frontal sulcus to the parietooccipital sulcus—a halo-ish ring at the level of like eaves, demanded by the Cambridge Fire Dept. over the heated pro-mimetic protests of topological Rickeyites over in the Architecture Dept. (which the M.I.T. administration, trying to placate Rickeyites and C.F.D. Fire Marshal both, had had the pre-molded resin injected with dyes to render it the distinctively icky brown-shot off-white of living skull, so that the balcony resembles at once corporeal bone and

And when he came to our runthrough on the stage, it just so happened that Simon had to be doing an impression of him. Simon was like, “Oh my God.” He did the scene and then immediately turned to Professor Hawking and said, “I’m so sorry! They made me do it!” And everyone cracked up. But then a buzzer on his wheelchair went off, and we saw his handlers come in to move and check things, and we were so concerned. My first thought was, Oh my God, Simon, you killed Stephen Hawking! But his handler assured us, “No, he was laughing!” The only way he could communicate was off of his glasses with a sensor on his cheek, so the buzzer would go off when he laughed. We were like, “Thank God!” He just had the best time seeing behind the scenes of our world and how it was done. I still can’t believe it.

I went up to his gravestone and repeated what the others had done: I placed a pebble on his tomb and silently said to him: 'Well, Oskar, at last we meet again, but this is not the time for reproaches and complaints. It would not be fair to you or to me. Now you are in another world, in eternity, and I can no longer ask you all those questions to which in life you would have given evasive replies... and death is the best evasion of all. I have received no answer, my dear, I do not know why you abandoned me... But what not even your death or my old age can change is that we are still married, this is how we are before God. I have forgiven you everything, everything...' Murmuring these words, I let them push my wheelchair up the slight incline leading to the gravestone that marks the place where his remains are laid to rest, outside the Jewish cemetery of Jerusalem. I knew that somehow the power of my thoughts had reached him, and felt, after all those years, a strange inner peace filling my spirit.

I left Brookstone and went to the Pottery Barn. When I was a kid and everything inside our house was familiar, cheap, and ruined, walking into the Pottery Barn was like entering heaven. If they really wanted people to enjoy church, I thought back then, they should make everything in church look and smell like the Pottery Barn. My dream was to surround myself one day with everything in the store, with the wicker baskets and scented candles, the brushed-silver picture frames. But that was a long time ago. I had already gone through a period of buying everything there was to buy at the Pottery Barn and decorating my apartment like a Pottery Barn outlet, and then getting rid of it all during a massive upgrade. Now everything at the Pottery Barn looked ersatz and mass-produced. To buy any of it now would be to regress in aspiration and selfhood. I didn’t want to buy anything at the Pottery Barn so much as I wanted to recapture the feeling of wanting to buy everything from the Pottery Barn. Something similar happened at the music store. I should try to find some new music, I thought, because there was a time when new music could lift me out of a funk like nothing else. But I wasn’t past the Bs when I saw the only thing I really cared to buy. It was the Beatles’ Rubber Soul, which had been released in 1965. I already owned Rubber Soul. I had owned Rubber Soul on vinyl, then on cassette, and now on CD, and of course on my iPod, iPod mini, and iPhone. If I wanted to, I could have pulled out my iPhone and played Rubber Soul from start to finish right there, on speaker, for the sake of the whole store. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to buy Rubber Soul for the first time all over again. I wanted to return the needle from the run-out groove to the opening chords of “Drive My Car” and make everything new again. That wasn’t going to happen. But, I thought, I could buy it for somebody else. I could buy somebody else the new experience of listening to Rubber Soul for the first time. So I took the CD up to the register and paid for it and, walking out, felt renewed and excited. But the first kid I offered it to, a rotund teenager in a wheelchair looking longingly into a GameStop window, declined on the principle that he would rather have cash. A couple of other kids didn’t have CD players. I ended up leaving Rubber Soul on a bench beside a decommissioned ashtray where someone had discarded an unhealthy gob of human hair. I wandered, as everyone in the mall sooner or later does, into the Best Friends Pet Store. Many best friends—impossibly small beagles and corgis and German shepherds—were locked away for display in white cages where they spent their days dozing with depression, stirring only long enough to ponder the psychic hurdles of licking their paws. Could there be anything better to lift your spirits than a new puppy?

Despite the struggle, every face is full of joy, a joy that comes from giving of themselves, and I am at the center of it all. I can’t stop smiling. They say it is better to give than to receive, but right now the gift I am receiving is incredible, indescribable. This is one of the most humbling experiences of my entire life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Back home, I have an inner circle of people whom I trust enough to do all the things I can no longer do. Kirstin and Patrick are the two at the very center of this circle. I didn’t go into my marriage thinking that one day my wife would have to feed me and brush my teeth. I never thought that one day I would ask my best friend to hold a urinal steady so I could pee, or wipe my backside because I could no longer hold toilet paper or reach. But this is now my reality. The first time I asked Patrick to help me use the bathroom, I hated it. I felt like I was a burden. Part of me was back on my front porch, questioning God. But Patrick, just like Kirstin, has never thought twice. He has always been happy to do whatever needs to be done. Just knowing that he can make my life a little easier brings him joy —the same joy I see on the faces of these people who are now carrying me up this incredibly steep mountain trail. Over the years, my pride has slowly been pushed aside as I have embraced all the things I can no longer do on my own, all the things others now have to do for me. I’m not sure who said it —or even where I heard it —but there’s a fundamental truth that has stayed with me over the years: “When you deny someone the opportunity to help you, you deny them joy in life.” I’ve had to embrace a lot of help over the past several years, and I have seen this truth play out in the lives of others time and time again. There is so much joy in giving, in helping others. A joy God intended for all of us to experience.

Our words can give our children the freedom to explore new ideas and develop their own faith, or our words can tear down their self-esteem.

I have played it safe and have let my fears take too much control. As a result, I have completely limited what God can do in my life. Not because he can’t, but because I won’t let him.” “What aren’t you letting him do?” Raising my head, I look at my best friend. “I’m not sure yet, but I’m ready to find out.

God, I don’t know why this is happening, but if you’re not going to heal me, at least make this mean something! Let me be your vessel, let me be your light, because I don’t know what else to do.” In that moment, I finally took hold of my unknown future. I embraced a life filled with questions and few answers. Peace consumed me like a warm bath after a cold rain. Whether it had been set in motion years earlier or was an answer to my prayer that day, I couldn’t begin to understand how much this moment would mean someday.

when it comes to God’s provision for the world, we are the front lines. Or at least we should be.

I can feel emotion welling in my chest as tears fill my eyes. I don’t know what heaven will be like, but I am guessing today is a glimpse of what we will experience. There are so many familiar faces of pilgrims who have gone before, staring back at us, celebrating our arrival. So many hands and hearts that have helped us along the way. I am thankful for every person in this square, known or unknown to me.

At the hospital, an attendant brought down a wheelchair for me. Steve somehow managed, without a forklift, to get me out of the truck and into the wheelchair. The birth progressed a lot faster than it had with Bindi. I wasn’t worried because I had Steve with me, and I knew everything would be fine, as long as we were together. I pushed like an Olympic baby pusher. I should have gotten the gold for my pushing. I think I pushed until I was nearly inside out. The baby came. Steve said, “It’s a boy!” and brought him to me. I remember my son’s tiny pink mouth. He looked like a baby bird with his eyes closed and his mouth open. He immediately began feeding. Steve cried tears of joy. Once we got settled, the proud papa headed for Sunshine Coast Grammar School to tell Bindi the news. “You’ve got a little brother,” he told her. Bindi was elated, in spite of the fact that she had spent every night saying her prayers for a little sister. Steve brought her to the hospital, where she took her little brother in her arms and looked at him lovingly. “How do you know he’s a boy?” she asked. “Bindi,” Thelma said, “they’re not born with clothes on.” “I think I will name him Brian,” Bindi said. “His name is Robert,” Steve told her. “Oh, well,” Bindi said. “I’m going to call him Brian for short.” It was a Sunday, December 1, 2003, and we had all just received the best Christmas present ever. Robert Clarence Irwin. Baby Bob.

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I would have been here in a wheelchair if I had known,” he claimed, steadily, quietly. “On crutches. On my hands and knees, I would have been here.

What do you call a nun in a wheelchair? Virgin Mobile.

Talk turned to current affairs. When the Bush-Gore election came up, Michael noted, “We discovered that to the credit of Gore he said his favourite book was Le Rouge et Le Noir.” Stendhal was one of Michael’s all-time favourites. “That settled things for Michael,” I said. “Yes,” he quickly agreed. “How’s Plymouth Argyle doing Michael?” Peter asked. “It’s dreadful. We’ve had the worst beginning of a season for years,” Michael replied, dropping his voice in disgust. “So we don’t need to press that subject.” We all laughed. Michael started to rise with his usual stagger. “Are you all right, Michael?” Emma asked. “Just let people help you,” Celine suggested. “I know,” Michael said. “You must do it,” Celine insisted. “You’ve always been independent, but it’s not in your best interests.” Celine was the only one of Michael’s friends who was quite this direct with him. While in Bermuda, Celine and Peter had provided a wheelchair for Michael, so that he could get around more quickly. Celine pressed her case in a jolly way, nearly always punctuating her remarks with laughter. A former centrefold, she was short and zaftig. She recommended that Michael find a nice girl with long hair to give him a massage. “It might work,” Michael agreed. He kept saying his legs had been getting better in Dubrovnik. I saw no sign of that, but I did marvel at how he negotiated the three sets of stairs from the kitchen to the living room (at street level) and then up another flight to where Jill’s study and his library are and then yet another all the way up to his bedroom. It was a very long haul that he laboriously

Another thing about Oscar is that he wasn’t afraid of anyone. And he always made up his own mind, no matter what other people said. They’re two of the best things I remember about him now. He wasn’t just my friend. He was kind of magic. I can’t really explain it better than that. He was honest and he was decent and he was always cheerful. And evem though his brother Stevie had to use a wheelchair, it wasn’t a problem the way people usually think it is, because Oscar always made sure that every door was opened and every stairway had a ramp, and every train station had the right access so he could get it. He used to say that if the world was designed properly, the whole population would be flying around the place in wheelchairs. And when he said that, Stevie used to laugh.

Our wedding took place on a blustery midwinter day. The fifteenth of January 2000. Yet the sun shone through the clouds brightly. Shara’s father, Brian, who so sadly was suffering with multiple sclerosis, gave her away from his wheelchair in the church. Brian cried. Shara cried. Everyone cried. We left the church to our friends singing a cappella versions of “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees” and “I’m a Believer.” I was the happiest I had ever been. Right decisions make you feel like that. We then danced to a Peruvian street band that Trucker had come across, and ate bangers and mash at long tables. The day was above all, love-filled. We were both among the first, and youngest, of our group of friends to be married, which made it feel even more special. (A wedding was novel for all of us in those days.) And Charlie and Trucker made everyone cry some more with their best-men speeches.

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Time no longer means the same thing to her as it does to us; she no longer measures it out in hours and days. It is a river she walks from its source to its delta. There are moments when she is a child asking her mother for a new doll. In the next eye-blink she is a gardener concerned over her dahlias or a grandmother complaining that her grandchildren never come to see her. On several visits she has mistaken me for her husband, her best friend, my father, or a Rhodesian farmer named Philip who evidently was once her lover. I don’t know which part of the river I shall enter when I approach her wheelchair. The last time I saw her, she lifted her arms up to me and said in a quavering voice, “Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy.

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Kissinger was now a loxed-out, quivering, drooling gomer in a wheelchair—in the sick hell of eternally end-stage Parkinson’s.

Community like this is what church was meant to be, what it should be,” Justin says. “But unfortunately, it is often not what the church is.” “What does ‘church’ mean to you, Patrick?” Christie asks. If I’m honest with myself, church is what we have been experiencing for the past several miles, but how do I best express this? “I think I want to start with what it’s not,” I say. As I pause to gather my thoughts, the sound of our steps seems to drive the words into my mouth. “Church is not a building for worship or a place to learn theories about religious doctrine. It’s not about why ‘we’ are right and ‘they’ are wrong, or how to talk to ‘those people.’” “Okay, so what is it then?” “It is an existence grounded in loving God and loving others—regardless of race, creed, sexual preference, or one’s history of pain, abuse, or addiction—and drawing them into the truth.” “What truth?” she asks. “The truth that God’s love is more powerful than any darkness we can face.

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At 5,020 feet, Cruz de Ferro is the highest point on the Camino, and for centuries, it has served as a landmark for leaving things behind. Pilgrims traditionally bring a stone or a memento from home to leave at the foot of this cross. None of us are sure what to expect.

Despite the struggle, every face is full of joy, a joy that comes from giving of themselves, and I am at the center of it all. I can’t stop smiling. They say it is better to give than to receive, but right now the gift I am receiving is incredible, indescribable. This is one of the most humbling experiences of my entire life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By the time we reach the top of the trail, where it reunites with the mountain road, we are greeted by two volunteer police officers in a bright yellow truck. They had heard about our climb and were waiting for us on the road. No words are exchanged, except a gruff but sincere “¡Buen Camino!” as one of the officers grabs the red nylon harness at the front of my chair and begins to pull me the rest of the way into O Cebreiro, while his partner drives the truck behind us with lights flashing. When we finally make it to the top, all I can do is look around at the people who have given so much for me today. As we gather together for a photo, “thank you” doesn’t seem like nearly enough after all they’ve done, but it’s all I can give.

The Camino has made this much clear to me: I want my life to demonstrate love, sacrifice for others, compassion, and value placed in relationships. I want my life to be a compass for my children to use as a guide for how they should live theirs, and I am suddenly and painfully aware of how I have been failing my beautiful children. At the end of the day, Justin and I sit at a small table outside of an albergue. I turn to him and say, “I don’t want to go back to who I was.

Tears stream down my face as the journey finally forces me to fully embrace the help of others—just as Justin’s disease has forced him to do in so much of his life. This is so very hard, but so beautiful.

While Jasper pushes, Patrick and I talk a great deal about the Basque man who affectionately slapped my cheek so many days ago. “A stranger in the middle of the Pyrenees has turned into a bit of a prophet.” “Yeah! I wonder if he will ever understand the power of his words?” Patrick muses. “I hope so, but do any of us ever know the power of our words?” “No, I guess not. That’s why we should make sure they are filled with hope.” It has been exactly one month since we heard the man shout, “The impossible is possible!” And we have seen more examples of this truth than we could ever imagine. Our journey has led Patrick and me over three mountain ranges, through days of self-exploration and discovery, and into the arms of strangers waiting to help us in ways we didn’t know we needed. What an experience.

Though Justin has breathed encouraging words into my ears ever since our initial climb up the Pyrenees, it hasn’t been his words that have pushed me as much as who he is. Every day, I have watched him embrace my help and the help of others, and those days have all led to this moment. By letting go of control and welcoming the strength of others to do what he cannot, Justin has been pushing me to let go of my need for control, to let go of comfort, to let go of safety, to let go of fear, and to embrace a life lived in faith, with others at my side.

When I choose pride over vulnerability, I find that relying on my own strength makes me weak.

The monument seems to stare back at me, and I think to myself, They need to add a silhouette of a guy in a wheelchair.

You measured once!” Grandpa said with a hint of a smile. “And now you have to cut twice!” “I measured twice!” I argued. “No, you didn’t. I watched you.” He knew I had made the mistake, but he let me continue down the path until I discovered it on my own. He could have intervened, but chose not to. Rather than simply cutting a new piece, my grandpa made me start over from the beginning, measuring and cutting each piece again. This was one of the few times I was ever angry with him. He let me fail and then almost laughed about it. But now, as an adult, I know he wasn’t laughing. He was silently celebrating how this lesson would one day serve me well.

Paddy and Skeez—there’s something powerful in nicknames that become terms of endearment. There’s a history behind any nickname that sticks for as long as ours have. And we’re reminded of their origin every time we hear them.

I love my life and am grateful for everything I get to experience. But in times like these, I can’t deny there’s a sting. I want to be out there running with the bulls, risking my life alongside Patrick for a good story. But in these moments, I have a choice: I can let my limits ruin me, or I can let them go. If I can’t catch a bull by its horn, the next best thing is to watch my best friend do it for me.

Back at the hotel, it’s time for us to shower. Not many people find themselves giving their best friend a shower, but as I soap and rinse Justin, I’m reminded of Karl and of Kirstin. This is a privilege. It may be work at times; it may mean I’m the first one up in the morning and the last to bed, but to have the opportunity to tangibly express my love for my friend, to serve him, is a gift I cherish.

All this, in addition to each day’s walking and pushing, is making me a kind of tired I didn’t know existed. But tonight feels different. I have a sense of gratitude I haven’t felt before. The challenge of the day with so much traffic, the fact of Ted leaving us tomorrow, and the communal dinner we experienced tonight have me thinking about what it means to face the challenges of life alone, to take on the unexpected in isolation. I wasn’t designed for a solitary existence. Though I am so very tired, there is an underlying energy in my bones, an energy that comes from the presence and help of others. The unexpected is just that—unexpected! We can’t plan for it . . . we can’t predict it . . . we can’t be ready for it in any way. Often the unforeseen events in life come with few answers or no clear way out. Deborah’s MS offers no way out, and Justin’s disease will eventually take his life. But just like the highway, these unexpected challenges can be faced and life can be lived, despite the darkness. We just have to make sure we don’t face them alone. Ted has helped us get this far. Christie, Lynda, and John have offered to help in the coming days. The many pilgrims sitting, breaking bread, and enjoying wine tonight remind me of what the church is supposed to mean, what it is supposed to represent. We are a community—or at least we should be—where all are welcome, all are loved, and the unexpected challenges of life are faced with others at our side.

With no meetings, no projects, and no commitments, people tend to open up and provide details of their lives you wouldn’t normally expect to hear after just meeting. Eight hours of walking together provides ample time for sharing.

As we discuss the best way to handle the carry, Patrick tells us, “There’s also some good news. I went a little farther up the trail, and around the bend at the top of the hill there’s pavement.

Such a brief interaction . . . but there is so much power in his words. They wash over us and fill us with a strength grounded in the idea that things are only impossible because they haven’t been done yet.

But how often do we see others struggling and take on their cause, raising the battle flag in an effort to fight for them, without knowing what they're fighting for, without knowing what they really need? What I had failed to see was that I had created a battle that Justin wasn't fighting. I was waging war on behalf o my friend, when what he really needed was for me to step into his battle. Not a battle for healing, but a battle for living, a battle for provision. Waiting ona miracle and wrecked by doubt, I had failed to see the little miracles unfolding to my right and to my left.

I may not be able to feed myself, shower myself, or go to the bathroom by myself. I may not be able to hug my daughter, play catch with my boys, or hold my wife's hand as we walk along a beach at sunset. But today, through the power, love and sacrifice of other, I climbed a mountain.

taller than my wheelchair-bound teacher, holding something that looked suspiciously like an archer’s bow. I opened the nearest door and slipped inside. A few seconds later I heard a slow clop-clop-clop, like muffled wood blocks, then a sound like an animal snuffling right outside my door. A large, dark shape paused in front of the glass, then moved on. A bead of sweat trickled down my neck. Somewhere in the hallway, Mr. Brunner spoke. “Nothing,” he murmured. “My nerves haven’t been right since the winter solstice.” “Mine neither,” Grover said. “But I could have sworn…” “Go back to the dorm,” Mr. Brunner told him. “You’ve got a long day of exams tomorrow.” “Don’t remind me.” The lights went out in Mr. Brunner’s office. I waited in the dark for what seemed like forever. Finally, I slipped out into the hallway and made my way back up to the dorm. Grover was lying on his bed, studying his Latin exam notes like he’d been there all night. “Hey,” he said, bleary-eyed. “You going to be ready for this test?” I didn’t answer. “You look awful.” He frowned. “Is everything okay?” “Just…tired.” I turned so he couldn’t read my expression, and started getting ready for bed. I didn’t understand what I’d heard downstairs. I wanted to believe I’d imagined the whole thing. But one thing was clear: Grover and Mr. Brunner were talking about me behind my back. They thought I was in some kind of danger. The next afternoon, as I was leaving the three-hour Latin exam, my eyes swimming with all the Greek and Roman names I’d misspelled, Mr. Brunner called me back inside. For a moment, I was worried he’d found out about my eavesdropping the night before, but that didn’t seem to be the problem. “Percy,” he said. “Don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It’s…it’s for the best.” His tone was kind, but the words still embarrassed me. Even though he was speaking quietly, the other kids finishing the test could hear. Nancy Bobofit smirked at me and made sarcastic little kissing motions with her lips. I mumbled, “Okay, sir.” “I mean…” Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair back and forth, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “This isn’t the right place for you. It was only a matter of time.” My eyes stung. Here was my favorite teacher, in front of the class, telling me I couldn’t handle it.

A Whacky Dream Or Not? When my neurologist told me that my MS would eventually be fatal for me, I was depressed and angry. The reason for being depressed is obvious. But the anger? I was mad at God! How could He let this happen to me! I had been working on a devotional book about living with a disease. But when I received the latest diagnosis from her, I shelved the book and didn't write again for a year and a half. And then, I had a dream about my funeral. In that dream, I could see my body in a casket. Then the "dream minister" began his homily. He mentioned how "God gave Beth her first book on MS in a series of dreams. That book became the top book on multiple sclerosis for six years at Amazon. But the book for which she is best remembered is her devotional about disease." When I woke up, I remembered the dream. It was then that I realized that the dream minister was talking about this book! So, I started writing again. Maybe it was just some whacky dream! But my dear friend Jim didn't think so. He once said to me, "If I am ever flying on a plane sometime, and you have a dream that my plane crashed, guess what? I would cancel the flight!" Jim unfortunately died before the devotional book about disease was published, but I do believe that he knows. So now my 5th book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope", has been published by CrossLink Publishing and is available. But mainly I am so grateful to God for giving me the motivation to finish writing the book. It probably wouldn't have happened otherwise if He hadn't given me that dream. Multiple Sclerosis has robbed me of absolutely everything. I have gone from doing daily kick boxing to now being in a wheelchair. But if this book helps other people who are suffering from a serious disease, then my life will have had some purpose and I am so grateful for this opportunity to speak to other individuals who are also suffering. So was the dream about my funeral a whacky dream or not? Only time will tell.

Motivation To Write My Book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope" When my neurologist told me that my MS would eventually be fatal for me, I was depressed and angry. The reason for being depressed is obvious. But the anger? I was mad at God! How could He let this happen to me! I had been working on a devotional book about living with a disease. But when I received the latest diagnosis from her, I shelved the book and didn't write again for a year and a half. And then, I had a dream about my funeral. In that dream, I could see my body in a casket. Then the "dream minister" began his homily. He mentioned how "God gave Beth her first book on MS in a series of dreams. That book became the top book on multiple sclerosis for six years at Amazon. But the book for which she is best remembered is her devotional about disease." When I woke up, I remembered the dream. It was then that I realized that the dream minister was talking about this book! So, I started writing again. Maybe it was just some wacky dream! But my dear friend Jim didn't think so. He once said to me, "If I am ever flying on a plane sometime, and you have a dream that my plane crashed, guess what? I would cancel the flight!" Jim unfortunately died before the devotional book about disease was published, but I do believe that he knows. So now my 5th book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope", has been published by CrossLink Publishing and is available. But mainly I am so grateful to God for giving me the motivation to finish writing the book. It probably wouldn't have happened otherwise if He hadn't given me that dream. Multiple Sclerosis has robbed me of absolutely everything. I have gone from doing daily kick boxing to now being in a wheelchair. But if this book helps other people who are suffering from a serious disease, then my life will have had some purpose and I am so grateful for this opportunity to speak to other individuals who are also suffering.

What Motivated Me To Write My 5th Book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope" by Beth Praed When my neurologist told me that my MS would eventually be fatal for me, I was depressed and angry. The reason for being depressed is obvious. But the anger? I was mad at God! How could He let this happen to me! I had been working on a devotional book about living with a disease. But when I received the latest diagnosis from her, I shelved the book and didn't write again for a year and a half. And then, I had a dream about my funeral. In that dream, I could see my body in a casket. Then the "dream minister" began his homily. He mentioned how "God gave Beth her first book on MS in a series of dreams. That book became the top book on multiple sclerosis for six years at Amazon. But the book for which she is best remembered is her devotional about disease." When I woke up, I remembered the dream. It was then that I realized that the dream minister was talking about this book! So, I started writing again. Maybe it was just some wacky dream! But my dear friend Jim didn't think so. He once said to me, "If I am ever flying on a plane sometime, and you have a dream that my plane crashed, guess what? I would cancel the flight!" Jim unfortunately died before the devotional book about disease was published, but I do believe that he knows. So now my 5th book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope", has been published by CrossLink Publishing and is available. But mainly I am so grateful to God for giving me the motivation to finish writing the book. It probably wouldn't have happened otherwise if He hadn't given me that dream. Multiple Sclerosis has robbed me of absolutely everything. I have gone from doing daily kick boxing to now being in a wheelchair. But if this book helps other people who are suffering from a serious disease, then my life will have had some purpose and I am so grateful for this opportunity to speak to other individuals who are also suffering.

What Motivated Me To Write My 5th Book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope" by Beth Praed When my neurologist told me that my MS would eventually be fatal for me, I was depressed and angry. The reason for being depressed is obvious. But the anger? I was mad at God! How could He let this happen to me! I had been working on a devotional book about living with a disease. But when I received the latest diagnosis from her, I shelved the book and didn't write again for a year and a half. And then, I had a dream about my funeral. In that dream, I could see my body in a casket. Then the "dream minister" began his homily. He mentioned how "God gave Beth her first book on MS in a series of dreams. That book became the top book on multiple sclerosis for six years at Amazon. But the book for which she is best remembered is her devotional about disease." When I woke up, I remembered the dream. It was then that I realized that the dream minister was talking about this book! So, I started writing again. Maybe it was just some wacky dream! But my dear friend Jim didn't think so. He once said to me, "If I am ever flying on a plane sometime, and you have a dream that my plane crashed, guess what? I would cancel the flight!" Jim unfortunately died before the devotional book about disease was published, but I do believe that he knows. So now my 5th book, "So You Have a Disease: Devotions and Stories To Restore Hope", has been published by CrossLink Publishing and is available. But mainly I am so grateful to God for giving me the motivation to finish writing the book. It probably wouldn't have happened otherwise if He hadn't given me that dream. Multiple Sclerosis has robbed me of absolutely everything. I have gone from doing daily kick boxing to now being in a wheelchair. But if this book helps other people who are suffering from a serious disease, then my life will have had some purpose and I am so grateful for this opportunity to speak to other individuals who are also suffering.

[T]he definitional shift away from the medical/individual model makes room for new understandings of how best to solve the “problem” of disability. In the alternative perspective, which I call the political/relational model, the problem of disability no longer resides in the minds or bodies of individuals but in built environments and social patterns that exclude or stigmatize particular kinds of bodies, minds, and ways of being. For example, under the medical/individual model, wheelchair users suffer from impairments that restrict their mobility. These impairments are best addressed through medical interventions and cures; failing that, individuals must make the best of a bad situation, relying on friends and family members to negotiate inaccessible spaces for them. Under a political/relational model of disability, however, the problem of disability is located in inaccessible buildings, discriminatory attitudes, and ideological systems that attribute normalcy and deviance to particular minds and bodies. The problem of disability is solved not through medical intervention or surgical normalization but through social change and political transformation.

The statistical likelihood that young, black men living in particular Chicago neighborhoods will be paralyzed (if not killed) by gunshot wounds serves to push them out of time, facing a future of no future, and a no future best embodied by a wheelchair. Disability, in other words, becomes the future of no future, with “dead in jail or in a chair” recognized as all the same, all signs of no future. In more mainstream, sentimental accounts of disability (i.e., those not featuring poor people of color living in “bad” neighborhoods), disability is what ends one's future; it is the familiar narrative of disability as tragedy and loss. But for the men Ostrander profiles, disability is the sign that one never had a future in the first place; loss is not the defining frame because there was nothing to “lose.

I have often observed rangers asking hikers what kind of terrain they want, how long they want to hike, and what level of difficulty best suits their needs. As a wheelchair user, however, I am seldom asked these kinds of questions, as if my desired level of difficulty were self-evident.

A system to prevent the soiling of railway tracks by Madhav Pathak of Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh; Herbal pesticide tablets to be used in the storage of foodgrains by Priyanka Guleria of Sionty village, Punjab; Low-calorie biscuits made from banana peels by Rucha Joshi of Nanded, Maharashtra; A toy laser with educational applications by Sudhanwa Hukkeri of Belgaum, Karnataka; A software program for embedding text through audio signals by Kyan Pardiwalla of Mumbai, Maharashtra; An optically controlled wheelchair by S. Harish Chandra of Chennai, Tamil Nadu.

Despite Old Leatherman’s mystique, Edward Payson Weston was probably America’s most famous pedestrian. In 1860, he bet his friend that Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t win the presidency. In 1861, he walked nearly five hundred miles, from Boston to Washington, DC, for Lincoln’s inauguration, arriving a few hours late but in time to attend the inaugural ball. He launched his pro career a few years later, walking thirteen hundred miles from Portland, Maine, to Chicago in twenty-six days. Two years later he walked five thousand miles for $25,000. Two years after that, the showman walked backward for two hundred miles. He competed in walking events against the best in Europe. Once, in his old age, he staged a New York to San Francisco one-hundred-day walk, but he arrived five days late. Peeved, he walked back to New York in seventy-six days. He told a reporter he wanted to become the “propagandist for pedestrianism,” to impart the benefits of walking to the world. A devout pedestrian, he preached walking over driving. Unfortunately, he was seriously injured in 1927 when a taxicab crashed into him in New York, confining him in a wheelchair for the remainder of his life.

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Sicky Frog looked miserable. “Why is she so scared of Hecate?” I asked. Sicky Frog had no answers. “Good talk,” I said. “Hope you feel better soon.” Second idea: I stopped by my history teacher’s classroom. Dr. Sharma had her prep period when I had English. Since we were watching a movie that day in English, I figured I could miss a few minutes. Dr. Sharma was pretty cool—and not just because she’d said Very good, Mr. Jackson the day before. She knew a lot about ancient cultures. She’d been bugging me to pick a topic for my paper on a forgotten historical figure. I’d been avoiding it, since I’d met so many forgotten historical figures and killed them all. Now, though, maybe I could ask Dr. Sharma what she knew about Hecuba, queen of Troy. She might be able to tell me something that would help me find the hellhound. If it saved me from breaking my brain against a mountain of history books, all the better. I strolled up to her open doorway and froze when I looked inside. The man who was eating a late breakfast at Dr. Sharma’s desk was definitely not Dr. Sharma. His dark hair and beard were flecked with gray. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket, tie, and dress shirt, with a flannel blanket over his lap. His old-fashioned wheelchair had hand-pushed steel wheels and well-worn black leather armrests. He held a half-eaten bagel in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in other. I registered all these details with perfect clarity, but somehow, I still did not recognize him. The best way I can describe the feeling is like bungee jumping. One second, you’re at the top of a cliff. The next,