My Journey. My Testimony.

The sound of children playing outdoors echo as I sit near the window reading my favorite book.   I look up and witness games of hide and seek, kick ball, hop scotch. My head returns to my book, with water-filled eyes I stare at my feet.  A festive jingle in my head, gives me hope - 

Put one foot in front of the other  And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor
Put one foot in front of the other  And soon you'll be walking out the door

A glimpse of a smile escapes my grim facial expression for just a few seconds.  My eyes return to the window, inwardly cheering for the children that are playing outside – they talk like me, raise their hands like me, have feet like me.  One difference, my feet are unostentatious; I’m unable to walk.

Childhood memories are often conditions that make you smile, laugh, hurt or insert a thank you God.  When I reminisce of my early days, I am as most, conscious of my highs, lows and in-betweens. For the longest period of time, I avoided going back to my childhood (except for thoughts of my daddy).  My daddy was one of the best attributes of my condition, he made me feel-hmmm, well, normal.  You see, I was born with a birth defect, bilateral club feet. A congenital deformity in which both of my feet were twisted out of shape at birth.  Needless to say, according to the physical developmental milestone chart for children, my pediatric visits resulted in exceptional behavioral and intellectual assessments, I grew and cooed as all other babies.  Physical assessments were also exceptional excluding the ability to skip, jump and walk.  Natural developmental instincts made me inherently want to stand; my feet made it difficult, impossible.  My parents ensured I received the best care they could afford; they believed I would walk.  They ensured I attended doctor visit after doctor visit.  Twisting, massaging, exercising and casting my feet – one day I would walk, even run; just not now.  I remember when time came to go to school.  As excited as I was I couldn’t join the neighborhood children, I schooled at home.  My teachers were phenomenal, they believed in me, always encouraging me while affirming my ability to triumph.  I distinctly recall one of my teachers, Ms. Johnson, preparing me for my first day of school.  She looked at me and said, “You may be teased because you can’t run like the others but know that you can read better, solve math problems better and write better – yes, you are better.”  I am better.

I endured multiple surgeries, casts and braces; all leaving an impression – scar. Casting and me were at a relentless battle.  I manifested a fervent desire to walk, I no longer wanted to be in a wheelchair, I was tired of casts, I wanted to be like other children.  I remember thinking, “if I didn’t have a cast, I could walk”, with determination, I would clap my legs together breaking the cast.  There was also a time I solicited the help of a cousin to burn the cast off. My helper placed the iron on my leg covering and walked away.  The iron burned through the casting and yes it burned me too; the marking still exists.  There were times I would maneuver my way from the wheelchair to walk on the casting.  My physicians at the Cripple Children’s Clinic (yes, that was the name) were not proponents of my behavior, eventually confining my hands to prevent my acts of determination, my ploy for freedom. 

Eventually I endured the last surgery that allowed me to stand, walk & ultimately run, jump and kick.  At the age of 8, 3rd grade, I entered a classroom with children – I was overjoyed.  I finally got to experience what Ms. Johnson assured me.  My school interactions and experiences were the beginning of relational growth, physical and mental strength, as well as my declaration to treat others as I desired to be treated. I set out to always be kind.  Yearly, I participated in the Shriner’s Hospital for Children parade and gleened at being the poster child one year.  That was my big deal.  Soon, I no longer needed braces or crutches.  I was able to walk confidently, growing to stand tall at 5’11”.  I was able to move freely.  With time, walking became normal for me.  I didn’t need the brace or crutches; they were no longer part of my home décor.  As I aged by decades, the less I thought of my childhood the less I spoke of my childhood.  Who needs to know?  My childhood story was only shared with a select few.

In just a few months, I will be celebrating my 6th decade of life. Believe it or not, it was only 3 years ago I finally renamed my permanent scars from numerous surgeries. I now call them beauty marks.  When I see my marks, I’m reminded to say Thank You God.  I no longer feel ashamed.  I now wear clothing and shoes that expose my beauty marks. Yes, they are evidence of God’s promises fulfilled.   There is something magical about the number 3.  You see, three months ago I shared my testimony with a distressed mother and grandmother whose 3 year old was diagnosed with bilateral club feet.  Oh my God!  I am blessed to be the vessel used to minister to them while working in a state of the art hospital cafeteria.  Did I mention this is the same place I received treatment? Look at God!  Sharing my testimonial was so fulfilling, so refreshing, so free — I really felt like singing, Put one foot in front of the other.  Best of all, the mother asked to see my scars.  I quickly informed her, these are not scars but beauty marks.  I publicly shared my beauty marks.    No more shame.  I also faced my giant and courageously viewed pictures of club feet.  I am better.

This is my testimony - These Feet are made for Walking.   I am better.