Losing my religion, part 1

When I was in tenth grade I was confirmed at a United Methodist church in suburban Chicago. My family had lived in Illinois for about three years at that point, I'd had two years of confirmation preparatory classes, and I'd been using a wheelchair for less than two years. A few weeks before confirmation, there was a weekend canoe trip to northern Wisconsin that, in retrospect, it is pretty impressive that I participated fully in.

I don't really recall details of the camping in tents or the complications of peeing in the woods, though I'm sure that felt adventurous at the time. It was completely inaccessible terrain and I needed help to function out there. I expect my very helpful twin sister remembers those details all too well.

What I do remember vividly is my canoe getting lodged atop a big rock in the midst of a daunting set of rapids. Neither I and my paddle-mate nor the more experienced canoeists who tried with successive float-bys could knock us off our perch, so the decision was made to help me abandon the canoe and use two good swimmers flanking me to insure I got safely to shore. We all had life-vests, of course.

"Don't let my face get in the water," I told my pastor and the other man just before I was dragged into the river and we headed for shore. The water was fast and icy cold, and there was undoubtedly considerable pressure to, you know, not let me drown while under their care. But all of this went very well, the men swam me to shore, and after lunch we continued down the river. The trip ended happily.

So I was surprised that Sunday while the confirmation rituals were afoot that my pastor retold this tale. He repeated for the congregation what I'd said and it became a little parable of faith how in a life-and-death moment I had only asked that my face not get wet. It was an example of how ready I was to commit myself to the church. It was a touching moment for everyone but me. I had been completely misunderstood.

My directions had been utterly practical. I couldn't swim and couldn't be certain I would be able to hold my head out of the water unless they carried me in a particular way. If I sucked in too much water they would have a crisis on their hands, so in the simplest terms possible I told them what I needed from them. Faith never entered into it. I considered it my responsibility to help them assist me. If I had chosen to say nothing and it had caused them to not help insure I could breathe, that would not have been called a lack of faith. It would have been called a tragic lack of information. ("I had no idea she couldn't hold her own head up. And who knew you could get pneumonia so easily?")

Yet my pastor interpreted my words as proof of a childlike faith worthy of praise and appreciation. And I believe my status as the "girl in the wheelchair" fed this perspective, and it certainly was the reason I was singled out as the teen to relate a story about to the congregation. That sort of attention goes with being disabled and it's the sort I learned early had little to do with seeing who I really am as a person. Frustratingly, an event that should have been about spiritual and community affirmation left me feeling invisible and misunderstood.

There was another similar event later on that same year. But I'll get to that another day.