My power wheelchair rolls along the smooth path of the college campus. The large fountain near the dining hall roars in the distance. It’s a sound that always comforts and centers me. Orange blossoms perfume the air. My mind buzzes. Words for half-written papers. Statistics for math homework. Full of the noise of everything yet to be done.
A low voice with a slight twang interrupts my thoughts. “Excuse me. May I lay my hands on you?” A guy in his early twenties with sandy blond hair and insistent eyes looks back at me.
He clarifies, noticing my confused expression. “I just want to help you. What’s your name?”
I pause before answering. “Kara.”
He responds with a slightly pitying smile. And then I understand. This isn’t my first time with this kind of thing. By help he means pray. I sometimes let people do it because it feels too complicated and rude to say, “No, thanks. I don’t have time for God right now.”
So, I let random guy put his hands on my shoulders. They’re large. I imagine they’d be warm if they were in direct contact with my skin. I wonder about the noise in his head. I wonder about the type of man who believes he has a direct line to God. Direct power to heal individual people. What if I put my hands on him and slid them down his well-defined pecs? What if he didn’t view me as broken?
Somewhere in the distance, almost drowned out by the noise of me thinking of taking off his shirt, random guy drones on. Something about help. Something about protection. I take note of this request. “Lord, I ask you to heal and strengthen Kara’s legs.” I don’t bother to tell him that cerebral palsy is actually a brain injury. Finally, he finishes. “In Jesus’ name I pray.”
He looks at me with probing eyes again. As if he now expects me to float up out of the chair and then run a marathon. As if he expects me to say, “Thanks. I can’t believe I never thought to ask for help with this.” But I don’t know what to say, so I just say, “Thanks.”
He smiles, pleased with his accomplishment. He parts from me in silence. My mind buzzes again. Full of the prayer I didn’t or want need delivered by a honeyed voice. Full of thoughts of my hands sliding down random guy’s body. Full of everything yet to be done. I can’t hear the fountain anymore.
