OPINION:
On a summer afternoon in the English countryside, I sat alone on a hill, wild grass wicking at my ankles: a feeling I’d never felt before. I’m usually in a power wheelchair and my feet, sitting securely on metal footrests, never touch the ground.
But in 2016, some friends and I left my wheelchair behind and headed off to Europe together. Using a specially designed backpack, they took turns carrying me for three weeks as we explored France, England, and Ireland. The question of whether something was “accessible” had no place in our adventure. We could go virtually anywhere. So, in England one afternoon, we went for a long walk, hopping fences, climbing muddy knolls, ducking through woods, and breathing deeply the fresh air.
Subscribe to have The Washington Times’ Higher Ground delivered to your inbox every Sunday.
Near the end of our six miles, we came over a green hill that looked down over all we’d just trekked across. We paused and took in the view. My friend, Tom, who was carrying me at the time, had the others help remove me from his sweaty back and set me — still in the backpack — on the ground. We all needed a break. Then Tom stretched, said mildly, “We’ll be back in a bit,” and walked off.
What were they doing, leaving me here all alone? I began to panic, but he reminded me, as he left, that this was what I had always wanted.
Months before, I’d shared with Tom that, if I was able-bodied, I’d run out to the middle of a field and just stand there.
“With the sky above, the ground below, and me and God in the middle,” was my dream.
He held onto my dream, treasured it as if it were his own, and waited until the right moment to give me that very experience on a hillside in the English countryside.
There were seven of us on the trip (four carrying, two filming, and me). I had met these guys in various places and seasons of life, and they were connected to each other in different ways, too. Some were already old friends, some knew each other in passing, and some met for the first time on the trip itself.
We were musicians, schoolteachers, wilderness guides, filmmakers. Some of us had families, some were still single; some liked crowds, others didn’t; some needed a plan, and some flew by the seat of their pants.
Politically, we were all over the board, too. Our crew, galavanting around Europe, was made up of Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, and guys who didn’t vote and didn’t care. There was not much commonality, besides our faith, their connections to me, and our mutual love for travel. We were, at the end of the day, just a bunch of 30-something-year-old Lost Boys, falling out of perambulators all over the U.S. and now on a journey together. (I’m still not sure if that analogy makes me Peter Pan or Michael Darling.)
Even being Christians, we each came with some diverging views and traditions. Ben was a worship leader at a nondenominational church; Tom attended a more charismatic church while I grew up in a quiet, communion-centered gathering; and Philip invited us all to his Greek Orthodox church before the trip to have Father Christopher pray over us in a liturgical manner.
The connection to me, too, was not a great common denominator. Ben was the only one who had ever gotten me out of bed and ready for the day, and he was doing it several times a week. I had worked on a film project with Luke a few years before, and I knew Tom and Philip from the music scene over four or five years. On the other hand, I met Robbie about three months before the trip, and Jamison around then, too.
Our love for travel came with a lot of variations as well. Seven guys wandering around Europe meant seven sets of backgrounds, biases, passions, and desires to inform what we did and how we did it. Museums, monuments, nature, big cities, and small towns, all were seen through different lenses. We each had takeaways, convictions, and moments of inspiration.
It was a visit to a museum that helped me understand, and appreciate, this.
Philip, a middle school history teacher, carried me as we navigated halls of ancient tools and artwork. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never done much with museums, but if I was going to, this was the way to do it. On Philip’s back, I went where he went, stayed in spots as long as he wanted to, and studied whatever artifact he was studying. What’s more, I felt the breath catch in his chest and heard his whispers of awe as we moved slowly from one display to the next. His reverence became my reverence in that place.
Later, we visited a famous Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. It was Philip’s turn to share in my wonder and reverence of a place.
In Philippians 2:3, Paul says we should “in humility count others more significant than yourselves.”
I have witnessed this on the shoulders of my friends, as they carry me where I want to go and I see what they want to see. In a world of differences, especially magnified right now during election season, there is a lot of empty talk about “unity.” We long for it, but it doesn’t come through social media posts, or billboards, or campaign slogans. Unity can only happen by putting others before ourselves and (as Paul also says in Galatians 6:2) bearing one another’s burdens, and these only happen when we submit to Jesus as our Lord.
The guys and I may have been Lost Boys on a journey, but at the end of the day, all we really had in common was that we said yes to what Jesus called us to do and did it together. That is what gets us into museums and onto hillsides, where we experience things we never have before.
–
Kevan Chandler grew up in the foothills of North Carolina and is diagnosed with a rare neuromuscular disease called spinal muscular atrophy. In 2016, he and his friends took a trip across Europe, leaving his wheelchair at home, and his friends carried him for three weeks in a backpack. An avid storyteller, he is a writer and speaker worldwide about his friendships and unique life with a disability, being a featured speaker for TEDx and Google, as well as various conferences, pharmaceutical companies, and universities. Kevan has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Counseling from John Wesley College and is also the founder of the nonprofit We Carry Kevan. He and his wife Katie live in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where they enjoy growing vegetables and reading to each other. His children’s book, “We Carry Kevan,” is now available.
Please read our comment policy before commenting.