Read Time: 5 minutes

by AJ Canterbury

My post in July focused on my personal quandary: “Why do I have my disability?” I searched the scriptures for an explanation for why God had allowed Friedreich’s Ataxia to descend and force its weight upon me. I had hoped the disability held some purpose.

What I found was that the Bible is not silent about God’s design in bringing suffering into our lives. All suffering carries divine purpose. I laid out four biblical reasons why disability exists.  

If you missed that article, you can read it here.

God uses my Friedreich’s Ataxia to complete sanctification in my life. In the hands of my redeemer, the sting of the disease softens into a measured tool to mold and shape me.

By saying that “the sting” softens, I’m certainly not implying that the pain and discomfort go away, because they definitely do not. Being sculpted into the image of Jesus is full of pain and discomfort. But instead of stealing joy and exchanging it with bitterness, the disability is being guided to prune me to receive greater joy (2 Corinthians 4:16-18).

I return to that comfort all the time. I need it, because the weight of the Friedreich’s Ataxia causes me to forget what he is up to.

As satisfying as it is to know that my disease is accomplishing my good, there is even more grace poured out through my disability. I am not always the receiving object. Throughout my life with Friedreich’s Ataxia, I’ve noticed how God crafts others’ lives with the tool as well.

The disability isn’t only for me.

Shared prayers, shared hope, and shared sharpening

The friendships cultivated through my time in college fostered much of my Christian growth and understanding of my suffering. Those relationships began with weekly InterVarsity meetings in the stuffy basement of one of the dorms. Too close to the furnace, the multi-colored room with its mismatched couches held the shared prayers for our lives and our campus.

After one night’s lesson, we closed the meeting with a concentrated prayer for my healing. We had boldly asked for my healing before in small circles, but this was the first of a handful of times we rushed to God’s throne as a collective group with the request.

It humbled me to have 15 fellow believers willing to go to God with something that concerned me. It was humbling, but it also felt right for us to do. By sharing my ask, we demonstrated a common bond, a unity of spirit.

Despite our unified front and our repeated asking, God still said no. He chose not to grant our request. I understood he had the right to do as he wished, but it didn’t keep me from feeling rejected.

Despite the discouragement of still being disabled, there was no doubt that something significant had just happened in the room. Although some individuals filtered out after we concluded the prayer, most of the group wanted to remain together. Our conversation ranged from wanting to talk about the shared experience, offering words for my encouragement and comfort, and discussing our weekend plans.

In the hands of my redeemer, the sting of the disease softens into a measured tool to mold and shape me.

Paul and Adrienne, the only adults in a room of college students, functioned as den parents to our group and grounded us theologically. These two, retired volunteers, fielded the questions we had that night about perseverance in prayer.

I sat back and watched the conversation among the group with a thankfulness for these individuals. Adrienne, seated next to me, leaned forward to speak counsel I will not forget.

“You know that while God has you in this wheelchair he is doing a faithful work in you, but your disability is not just for you.”

She explained further, “Your disease works his goodness in the lives of those around you. God has brought these people into your circle to use your disability as a sanctification for them. By doing life with you and being influenced by you, God is refining their character in a way that can only be accomplished through your disability.”

I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I sensed it was a great truth I needed to hold on to. As the year carried on, I started to comprehend Adrienne’s words. I caught glimpses of how my disability shaped others.

Just by including me in their activities and lives, they were gaining patience and care. They learned what it meant to be the church and “count others as more important than [themselves]” (Phil. 2:3). Through our conversations, they were being challenged and encouraged to trust God deeper.

He was faithfully doing great things. What an incredible Redeemer to use one circumstance (my life in a wheelchair) to refine me while sharpening others at the same time. He wastes nothing.

Our connection as a group was expanding. I was an integral part of the group, all of me, and that meant they carried some of the weight of my disability. They took on the burden, as if it were their own, and by doing so, fulfilled the law of Christ (Gal. 6:2).

God has brought [others] into [my] circle to use [my] disability as a sanctification for them. 

 Grace to and for the Caregiver

I wouldn’t have managed for as long as I have without my brother, Brian.

One of the greatest difficulties of my progressive disease, Friedreich’s Ataxia, has been watching the deterioration of my independence. Things I had once been able to do with relative ease, albeit clumsily, I now had to rely on others to do for me. My brother has sacrificed the most to assume the role of caregiver.

When he married fifteen years ago, both he and his wife built a home with accessible access so I could live there comfortably. Over the years, Brian has juggled operating his own business, being an involved husband and father, and church responsibilities while caring for me. 

It is a role he willingly accepts, but a role that is still a burden to lay on an already busy plate.

As difficult as it is to be the one with the disability, it is a different kind of suffering to be the caregiver, helping someone else maintain as much freedom as they can. Even more so when the “patient” is someone you deeply love. The caregiver requires constant grace from God to fulfill their position.

Because of the caregiver’s sacrifice, it is hard to see past the single-sidedness of the relationship. Brian gives much more of his time, finances, and resources than I can possibly return. I gain much more freedom while I claim parts of his divided attention.

Is that just the way it goes? Should Brian just expect to be the giver and never the receiver?

God has revealed that he is giving Brian plenty. I fully attest that my brother possesses an ample amount of selflessness and generosity, but he is not Jesus. God is committed to conforming him to look more and more like his son (Rom. 8:29), and he is using my disability to accomplish it.

 
 What an incredible Redeemer to use one circumstance (my life in a wheelchair) to refine me while sharpening others at the same time. 

Just as my disability was not given to me by happenstance, Brian does not have a disabled brother by random chance either. The Friedreich’s Ataxia plays a vital part in both of our sanctification. God’s gracious sovereign hand intended it as such.

God pours out grace on the person with a disability through the sacrifice, but God also pours out grace for the caregiver because of the person with a disability. 

This provides me with profound reassurance, my physical condition serves to complete the work he is doing in others. The disease is more than just for me. I am disabled because those around me need to be changed by the disability.

As relationships enter my sphere of influence, God allows me to be a part of their sanctification. What a gift this perspective is! I need to be constantly reminded of it.

How have you seen this truth at work in your life? When has the disability/suffering of another aided your sanctification? Let me know in the comments.

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