On Love & Disability

A few years ago, my dear friend Sarah and her boys were visiting our home for the day, a rare treat with our full lives and the winding roads between us. While the kids played together, we chatted about marriage and parenthood, dysfunctional ministry, church trauma, honest writing, and systemic injustice because we are ‘light and easy.’ Not to worry, though. Our friendship is also marked by maniacal laughter, hilarious memes, and memories we swore would never be made public. 

Later that afternoon, between sips of strong coffee and rich conversation, Sam toddled in and out of the kitchen, rocking like a human metronome, his favorite musical toy pressed to his ear. Sarah and I hung the dish towels and followed him into the dining room, where he plunked down on the floor, turned onto his belly, cocked his head to the left, and pushed his bum in the air. Think ‘Child’s Pose’ with a twist, a characteristic move by my beloved boy.

Rather than comment on Sam’s atypical posture, Sarah knelt in her knee-length dress and black tights, stretched out next to him, and said, “Hey, man. How’s it goin’?” She seemed to realize he may not respond with word approximations or eye contact but she made no assumptions about his abilities or inclinations. I quietly marveled at these two very different people, side by side on the dusty floor of our old weathered home. 

We hear a lot about what it means to love our neighbors. Buzzwords like ‘marginalized,’ ‘inclusion,’ and ‘kindness’ are splashed across social media. Online dialogue that centers on this kind of language is important for all of us, especially in the disabled and neurodiverse communities. 

The internet is a great way to raise awareness and use our platforms to address systemic injustice, provide education through shared resources, and raise financial support for individuals and organizations doing good work in the world. Public advocacy has proven to be vital in reminding us of our shared humanity, especially in a pandemic that has increased isolation for many who are impacted by disability.

In our public discourse around God’s call to love our neighbors, I sometimes wonder whether we confuse our online voice with real relationships. While declarations like ‘we must do better’ and ‘let’s listen and learn’ are well-intended starting points, they are insufficient in bringing about the sustainable transformation we need in our homes and communities. We can know all the facts, puppet all the right phrases, call ourselves pro-life, and yet have no authentic lived experiences that reflect our beliefs about disability.

We may speak up with and for those who’ve historically been denied basic human rights and still miss the deeper call to love, because many of us who are able-bodied and neurotypical don’t really know anyone in that demographic, unless it’s part of our job or annual volunteer requirement. This is why real relationships and ongoing education are vital. 

When I consider what it means to love my disabled and neurodiverse neighbors, I think of that memorable day when Sarah’s quiet gesture spoke louder to our family than any online word she could utter. She modeled what loving someone with a disability can look like:

Time.

Intentionality.

Mutuality. 

Proximity.

Vulnerability. 

It also looks like honoring their voices without assuming they need us to speak for them.

It looks like believing they are individuals with unique perspectives and gifts to offer a world that has too long devalued them. 

It looks like refusing to use the ‘r’ word (or any of its derivatives) and graciously challenging those who do.

It looks like letting ourselves be seen by those who understand vulnerability and pain in ways many of us never will. 

It looks like purchasing their books and products, joining their work, sharing their work, and listening to their lived experiences.

It looks like supporting organizations that specifically serve and/or employ those with disabilities. 

It looks like offering to accompany a local friend to an IEP meeting–or joining her later to listen and help her process. 

It looks like being with another human where power structures and pity and plastic smiles fade into mutual connection and a sense of belonging. 

It looks like curling up on the hardwood floor next to an Autistic boy with Down syndrome and valuing him enough to enter his world for a while.

Featured image by Wesley Tingey at Unsplash