I thought it. That it was probably your grandmother's car. How could you? How dare you take that parking spot from someone who actually needs it.
I stared. 297 days ago.
And with all my heart, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry because 297 days ago, I learned that pain is often invisible.
It's invisible in people like my dear friend with the beautiful, youthful figure and the exuberant little children and the smile that could bring up the sun. She looks like her life might just be perfect. But you can't see the Rheumatoid Arthritis that is ravaging her body on the inside. You can't see that underneath her glowing skin is chronic and excruciating pain. Pain that restricts her ability to cradle her small son or to dance with her sweet young girl. Pain that restrains her. Pain that would love to bury her.
And maybe today is a really good day for her. Maybe, today, she's dancing through it. Maybe, today, she could lift her feet onto that ottoman and rock that wavy haired baby in her arms. But, most people wouldn't even notice the difference. Because her pain is invisible.
If she needed a handicap spot for those good days when she can actually put her kids into the car and make it all the way to the store, so that she could protect her fragile body until the next day that probably won't be so good just because she took that trip today...would you judge her?
Is your pain invisible? You don't look like you're hurting to me.
But, I can't see what's underneath your grin. Maybe you're grinning because today, you're a champion. Today, you beat the odds. Today, you fought against that thing that has brought you so much suffering. Today, you got up and you pressed your foot against the accelerator and you moved forward. People might not see the pain. But that doesn't make it less real. That doesn't make it less chronic. Less present. Less daunting.
296 days ago, I was diagnosed with invisible pain.
A disease that people could see for a while, because I was bound to a wheelchair or to crutches. A disease that people could see for a while because I lost the color in my face and my leg looked like it belonged to a zombie and I spent so much time in hospital rooms with needles in my spine and IVs in my arm.
But, I've fought. I've fought against that invisible pain, with the God who heals on my side, and I have refused to let the pain own me. I have pressed through the mire of months and months of that cruel and unwavering pain. And now, I feel pretty good most of the time. And I have my color back. And I'm young and bubbly and generally happy. Sure, the cost is high for a few days when I need to take a few running steps to chase my toddler when he's darting toward danger. The cost is high for a few days when I spend a few extra minutes walking in the playground with my little ones who so desperately missed getting to play with their mommy during the hardest months when I was bound to a bed. But, on the outside, I look like everything might just be fine.
As soon as the day came when I was cleared to cautiously drive my car again, I rejoiced in the freedom. The freedom to carefully and painstakingly lift my three tiny children into that car. To pull my body up and over it's still heavy bondage to that pain and buckle them in. To hold my breath and grit my teeth and press my aching, stabbing foot into the gas pedal and make my way to somewhere. Anywhere. Because, finally, I could. Freedom. But freedom still came with constant and invisible pain.
I received my handicap permit with reservations.
The handicap permit that would make leaving the house a possibility because I would be able to limit the amount of walking I had to do--especially with three kids in tow. Yes, I picked up that permit with fear. Afraid of the first confrontation I might have in a parking lot with someone who thought I had borrowed my grandmother's car. Afraid of the stares and glares of strangers who thought I looked far too well to need to park so close. "How could she?"
I gave the stares the benefit of the doubt for the first couple of months. I smiled, assuming that my gazers were just in their own little worlds experiencing their own kinds of struggle that caused their brows to furrow. I smiled, because it didn't matter what anyone might have been thinking anyway if they were, in fact, looking at me. Because, even with invisible pain, I was free enough that day to be out in the world unassisted.
And then came today.
The day of a little girl's birthday party. My leg was aching from over-extending my newfound freedom earlier in the week. It was difficult to press my foot against the ground. Difficult, and invisible. But it wasn't going to stop me.
I loaded my beautiful tiny trio into the car, and we headed to the store to select the perfect gift. I didn't have enough time for the transplant of three little people from car-to-cart-and-back-to-car, so I carried the smaller two of my sweet ones, and my oldest held my forearm. Ever thankful for the gift of walking and driving and holding my children, I wasn't fazed by the weight of their precious bodies against the gravity of the invisible and piercing weight that bore through my right leg into the concrete below me.
Once we had found an Elsa doll that sang "Let It Go" and had made sure to get the song stuck in every other shopper's head as we made our way to the check out, I felt pretty accomplished. I grinned as we walked back out to the parking lot. I strutted proudly, two giddy kids and an Elsa doll in my arms, another giddy kid by my side.
Just outside the store, a car was pulled over to drop off an elderly woman. A middle-aged man with silver at his temples sat in the driver's seat and a lovely nun in her habit sat beside him. They smiled at me.
I crossed in front of them, on my way to my car. My car that was parked in a handicap spot. With the permit that allowed me to park there. With the permit that allowed me so much freedom. With the permit that allowed me a much shorter distance to travel into stores, that allowed the walk across concrete to look so much less intimidating.
And it happened. The thing I had been so afraid of. The thing to which I knew one day I wouldn't be able to give the benefit of the doubt.
They followed me. The man and the nun. They parked their car windshield-to-windshield with mine. And they glared. With tight, cruel faces. Both of them.
I didn't notice it at first. I was busy wrapping the Elsa doll in pink tissue paper, to the glee of my girls. Busy buckling babies into their carseats. Busy pausing for long enough before driving again to rest my leg from the invisible pain.
And I looked up. And my eyes met their eyes.
I saw it. And my stomach turned. But I still smiled. And they kept staring. Both of them--eyes fixed on me.
I fumbled with my GPS to make sure I knew where I needed to go for the party, and as I sat there, I felt their stares. Their glares. Burning into me. And my stomach kept turning. So, I allowed my eyes to meet theirs again. And again, I smiled.
They didn't change their expressions. I didn't change mine.
And I drove away. And, as tears formed in my eyes because a fear had become a reality, I reminded myself of the truth that I had read earlier in the day. The truth found in Romans 8:
"There is now, therefore, no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
I deserve to be judged. Fiercely and harshly and eternally.
But, it's not because of a handicap permit paired with an able-looking body. No. I deserve to be judged because God is perfect and His standard is perfection and I'm a sinner. But, because of His great love for me, even in my sin, He sent His perfect Son to die in my place. To be judged instead of me. And then, He conquered sin and judgment and death. And He came back to life. For my freedom. So that I wouldn't have to be judged like I should have been. For my sin. Because of how much He loves me.
And now, I cannot be condemned.
So, I won't let myself feel that way because of someone else's judgment. I took a moment, then, to remind my little ones of something. Mindful, especially, of my firstborn who is getting ready to go off to Kindergarten. To begin her school years. Years where there will surely be pain that I cannot prevent from coming her way. I know that every challenge is an opportunity to build character, to grow perseverance, to love others, and to please God. But it still makes my heart ache to know that she will face trials. That she will have days when her pain is invisible. That there will be people who will judge her for all sorts of things that they can't see or don't understand. I can't keep her from the trials. But I can help her with her response.
So I reminded my little ones that Jesus asks us to love people who are against us. To pray for people who hurt us. That we are more than conquerors because of Jesus. That the freedom we have is because of Jesus.
I don't want to cast judgments on others because I'm not the judge. I deserve to be judged. But I've been forgiven. It's the forgiveness that I don't deserve.
"The Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our king. It is He who will save us." (Isaiah 33:22).
Today, I remembered you. You in the handicap parking spot. And I'm sorry. Deeply sorry. Because 297 days ago, I had no idea. I'm sorry for the pain in your life that I cannot see. I'm sorry that I judged you in my heart because you looked fine on the outside.
Please forgive me.
Keep that grin on your face. Keep on standing tall and strutting across the parking lot when you're having such a good day that you can stand. Stand in that freedom.
"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free," (Galatians 5:1).
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