A Window In Time ... Darci Steiner

I am approaching four years of disability. That’s 1,460 days. When that chair fell and hit my ankle, I had no idea it would change my life. I had no clue about the encounter I was about to experience with God. It began with many discussions over His ways and what His scriptures mean. I have wrestled with Him over which life is better for me—a disabled or a painless one.

God and I spend time alone when no one else can understand my loneliness, disappointment, or sorrow. Even though I can hardly walk, He has taught me how to walk with Him. He’s taught me that pain is His way of carving me to better resemble His image. He’s given me contentment with less because He has become more. I’ve learned Jesus is the reason during a season of suffering, and because He learned obedience to His Father through suffering, so do I. I have sat in my despair and mostly learned not to be afraid. I am afraid, but I’m less fearful than I was when I entered this encounter. As I grow and my faith expands, I panic less that I can hardly walk.

I used to walk daily for 45 minutes. On those walks, I connected with my Father through nature. I couldn’t understand why He took away my favorite times of connection until I realized He wanted me to communicate with His nature more, in stillness, without distraction. He wanted to take me deeper into quiet, to show me who He is and who He isn’t.

It’s harder for me to sit still in His nature (presence) than to walk down the street looking at nature. My initial and constant question to Him at the start of this encounter was, “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live with such limited capacity to do anything?” I felt bound, locked up, and distressed while suffering blood-curdling horrendous pain. Having Complex Regional Pain Syndrome is like a horror movie that loops over, and over, and over again.

I have lost so much these last four years. I can’t walk but a few steps per day, reserved to get my lunch, use the restroom, and sometimes get to the dinner table. I can’t drive anymore or even take a shower without help. I can’t cook, get to my backyard, or sit on an unpadded seat. I’ve lost my independence and, at times, my mind.

I can’t watch my baby granddaughter alone or take her to the zoo. Oh, how I long to take her to the zoo. I’ve lost my ability to play the piano, a passion of mine. I’ve taught dozens and dozens of students to play over the years, and now I can’t move my fingers in the positions playing requires. You see, I’ve hurt my hands as well. When one body part is injured, the rest of the body lovingly compensates. Eventually, those parts need to be compensated for too, then bam, you’ve got a domino effect, and everything falls apart. When I walk, I feel as if I’m walking on corkscrews and pins and needles. I have torn rotator cuffs, biceps tendonitis, thigh pain, and nerve damage in my hands. My fingers hurt now as I type, but it’s my creative outlet, so I type as long as possible. But now, I must speak into the dictation feature on my computer because my fingers can’t take the pain any longer. Other losses within this four-year window include my beloved father, friends, and pets.

The thing about windows is there are two sides, two perspectives. We look out through a window with one point of view and look in with a different one altogether. We get used to seeing one option and forget there are others. But we can decide to reframe what our mind sees and believes.

When I look through the window opposite the side of pain, I see the gains. I have a greater appreciation for the things I haven’t lost. I am not alone. My God shows up for me when I think I can’t go on. Mark, my beloved, and I have grown closer despite hardship. My siblings have shown up in a big way.

A dream came true because of my disability—writing a book. As I wrote about suffering, the writing not only distracted me from pain but as I wrestled with the subject, I found good hidden within its intricacies. That was a big gain. Hopefully, my readers feel the same. I’ve gained a voice for the disabled community, speaking about what it’s like to lose ability, but gain perspective. I’ve spoken on podcasts about finding Jesus in suffering and point out that God used Paul, who had a thorn in his flesh, to write fourteen of the twenty-seven books in the New Testament, four of them from prison.

I have felt imprisoned too, but the truth is, I’m not. Christ has set me free through disability. I’m free from distancing myself from Him because of independence. When I was able-bodied, I was disillusioned about the amount of freedom I had. Chronic pain keeps me tethered to Him. What can be more freeing than that?

I don’t know what each day holds for me. I may be in too much pain to do anything, or I may have a clear mind to write an article, my newsletter, or a new devotion for my next book. Within it all, I know now that God wants to use me, no matter how limited my abilities. I open each day with The Prayer of St. Francis because I aspire to be an instrument of His peace. There’s nothing He can’t do without a willingness to be used by Him. I am willing.

I hold that willingness in my heart and say to Him, “I am willing to do what you want, to go where you take me, but you have to enable me.” As I walk into my future with Him, I know that whatever He chooses for me is best.

I trust God is good. I know He loves me and wants what’s best for me. If disability is what He deems best, there will be tough days ahead. All of them will be. But disability has blessed me. I hold dear the closeness of His breath telling me, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt. 5:4 NIV). I don’t have to wait to be comforted until He takes me to my heavenly home. Even now I look through the window on the side of gain and feel His comfort in this encounter. Even though living with disability is exceedingly hard, I can’t think of a better place for Him to grow me into an instrument of His peace.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Darci Steiner

Darci J. Steiner is the author of the award-winning biblically based book, Beauty Beyond the Thorns: Discovering Gifts in Suffering. She began writing as a way to process her pain after becoming disabled from a foot injury. Darci writes to encourage others to never give up hope. She is a disability advocate, inspirational speaker, guest-podcaster, and nutritionist. More importantly, Darci is a follower of Christ, and loves to spend time with her husband, two adult daughters, and baby granddaughter. Please visit www.darcijsteiner.com to subscribe to The Upside of Suffering Newsletter.