It all started after a sky cap dropped me near the luggage carousel in the Philadelphia Airport last weekend. Even after two wheel chair rides and an extra round of Starbucks coffee, my legs defied me when I stood.
At first it didn't matter since my red Rollator walker was near, providing an easy perch. Sitting comfortably, I was unfazed when my sister, Laura, pointed to the fashionista near by.
"She's got to be famous," she whispered as we waited for our luggage.
I craned my neck, peering around the standing passengers.
"Look at her pile of luggage," I replied, "And that man in a tuxedo picking it up."
As Laura and I casually gawked, a middle-aged man walked close by with his friend and exclaimed, "You sat next to Miss. Alabama on the flight?"
"Did you hear that?" I asked my sister, "It's Miss. Alabama. Let's look her up!"
Still waiting for our luggage (while her mound piled high) I pulled out my smart phone. After a quick search, her picture appeared, and I handed my phone to my sister. At 5'10, my sister could easily compare the screen image with the real life Barbie Doll standing across the way.
"That's her," Laura confirmed.
Suspicious, I did another search and learned that the official Miss. America Pageant takes place in Atlantic City in less than two weeks. Thus, an entire pageant wardrobe flew north with us that morning.
Forget the real life contestant. The winning gown may have been on our flight.
In time our suitcases arrived and we stood to leave. When I stepped forward, however, jello legs inhibited my stride. Surprised at their instability, I fought familiar panic and began to play my favorite mental game.
For when my legs betray me, I often stand up straight with eyes closed and imagine I'm Miss. America, walking the stage with grace and ease. Stretched tall, I look beyond the red walker, as if it isn't even there. Having played this mental game many times, I'm used to a momentary lift carrying me above the stress.
As I exited the Philly Airport, however, it didn't work. No matter how I tried, the image wouldn't stick. With Miss. Alabama only a few feet away - in black platform stilettos and a bright green dress - my mental game derailed. I couldn't play pretend with the real thing in view.
Resigned, I sank back into my skin, held the walker handles tight, and moved forward with slightly bent knees and pigeon toes.
But as shuffled in awkward strides, my insides didn't tighten. In fact, the inner dialogue changed, "No, I'm not Miss. America. I'm a disabled daughter, sister, mom, and wife... and it's OK."
And it really was. For the first time, it was simply OK. Coming face to face with a real live contestant forced me to accept she's who she is and I'm who I am.
Miss. Alabama will strut her stuff in the next few weeks and perhaps win a crown. I, on the other hand, will continue with good days and bad, with lots of divine pauses (aka. naps), and will waddle to and fro if need be.
And it's still OK.
I'm a Child of the King. Crafted by His hands. Very thankful the divine truth is settling in, again.
I'd still like to lose ten pounds and wear cute sandals. But I don't need to be Miss. America. I'll just be me. The me that I am. The me God created, died for, and cherishes, wobbly legs and all.
I wrote this song a very long time ago. Time to listen again.
photo credit: coffee, tea or ME? via photopin (license)
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