Strangely Held: God and Being Temporarily Able-Bodied

A Contemplative Reflection on my Frustrations with my Physical Inabilities & Growing Older

I have just returned from one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. A group of old friends and I journeyed together across British Columbia and Alberta in an RV, travelling through a breathtaking mosaic of lakes, mountains, waterfalls, and wild forests. The laughter, the deep companionship, and the gift of nature filled me with awe and delight. But there was also another story playing out beneath the surface - one that I find much harder to talk about.

Increasingly, I need support to walk downhill or on uneven terrain. My walking ability is compromised, my left knee requires a substantial brace, and the physical agility I once had is simply no longer mine. I hated having to ask for help from my friends, despite their generosity and kindness. Each request surfaced a storm of emotions: vulnerability, shame, and grief. I felt exposed, diminished.

One moment cut particularly deep. We had reached a glacial lake - icy, turquoise, perfect at the end of a long day. It was a beautiful place. But after swimming for a bit with my friends in what was a beautiful moment, I returned to the water’s edge, just as a strong beautiful man stripped off, stepped gracefully into the lake, and swam freely, fluidly, gloriously whole. Something in me shattered and was triggered. It was a vision of the body I had longed for my whole life, the one I once had in fragments, the one I imagined in dreams. The effect was to take my previous experience of elation to one of pain in a matter of seconds.

I have lived with a progressive neurological and orthopaedic condition since my mid-teens: Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease. At fifteen, my life changed. My feet weakened, my legs began to betray me. I had once loved running, walking, tennis, badminton - even hockey. The joy of movement was part of how I understood myself. But suddenly, that joy became something I could only remember. It was as if a door had quietly locked behind me. I remember crying in fear and anger.

In my teenage years, unable to keep up with my peers, I retreated into a world of fantasy. In my inner life, I could still run, still excel. On the outside, I was left behind. The chasm between my internal world and my body’s limitations grew wider. I began to despise my body, seeing it as defective, broken, never enough. And this was only made worse by the culture around me - especially at school - where athletic ability meant social status, admiration, belonging. I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t belong. And so I turned inward, carrying a private loathing that no one ever really saw.

Now, in my 50s, the visible signs of disability are undeniable. I wear a bulky brace. I use insoles that stop my feet from hurting and to keep in a good position - I can’t walk now without them. I cannot walk far. The fantasy of returning to “normal” has died, but its ghost still lingers, whispering false promises and old shames.

For years, I brought this pain to God. I prayed in frustration and lament. I asked “why?” again and again. I compared my condition to others - those more severely affected and those seemingly untouched - and felt ashamed of my anger. I knew there were many who had it worse. But I was still hurting. I was still angry. Why would God give me a body that seemed to betray me again and again?

It’s strange, then, that I once trained and worked as an Occupational Therapist. I spent years helping others adapt to life with disability, working to find dignity and capability in limitations. And yet, deep down, I still longed to escape my own limitations. I wanted healing, yes - but more than that, I wanted to be someone else entirely: someone strong, someone fast, someone free.

It has only been in recent years, as I’ve walked further along the contemplative Christian path, that I’ve begun to experience some peace. I’ve discovered a deeper theological vision - especially through the lens of disability theology—that has helped me reimagine what it means to be human, to be embodied, to be loved.

Nancy Eiesland’s seminal book The Disabled God stunned me when I first read it. She writes:

“In Jesus Christ, God experiences disability. The resurrected Christ still carried the scars of his crucifixion - he is not cured, but made whole.”

This was a revelation. Christ’s wounds are not erased in resurrection; they remain. His body, marked by suffering, is the body through which the world is saved. Eiesland helps us see that the Incarnation is not an abstract ideal—it is God entering our frailty, our vulnerability, our limitation.

This perspective began to challenge my internalised shame. My body is not a mistake. It is not broken in the sense that it disqualifies me from life or faith. Instead, it is sacred ground. As Thomas Reynolds writes in Vulnerable Communion:

“Disability is not a deviation from the norm of full humanity, but part of the diverse embodiment that defines what it means to be human.”

This realisation is slowly healing my relationship with my own flesh. It doesn’t take away the pain, or reverse the condition. But it does dismantle the illusion that wholeness is about having a perfect body. Instead, wholeness is about being held in love, just as I am.

From a contemplative standpoint, I have also begun to see that the invitation is not to escape the body, but to become more deeply present to it. In contemplative prayer, especially in the silence, I find God not above or outside my suffering, but within it. God does not stand aloof, waiting for me to “get over” my pain. God meets me through the pain, in the pain, as the One who was wounded and risen.

In moments of silent prayer, when I allow myself to sink beneath the noise of judgment, memory, and fantasy, I sometimes feel what I can only call mercy. A deep awareness that I am loved - not in spite of my weakness, but in the midst of it.

St. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 12:9:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

I used to hate that verse. It felt like divine spin. But now I begin to understand that it’s not about celebrating suffering, or pretending it doesn’t hurt. It’s about discovering that God's presence doesn’t disappear in fragility. In fact, it becomes more real.

One of the most powerful contemplative practices I return to is simply resting in God’s presence in my body as it is. Sitting in silence, with gentle awareness of my breath, my weight, my pain - I offer it all to God. I don’t try to change anything. I simply say, "Here I am." Over time, that practice has helped soften the harsh inner critic. It's helped me let go of the impossible fantasy of perfection and begin the slow work of self-compassion.

When I swam in those glacial lakes with my friends, something extraordinary happened. The water held me. I was weightless. I could move without braces or pain. For a moment, I felt free. But that freedom wasn’t about “overcoming” disability. It was about being held. And perhaps that is what grace truly is.

So much of our culture - including much of the Church - idolises strength, healing, overcoming. But God, I am learning, does not. God honours the body as it is. God in Christ takes on the wounded body. And that means my life, as it is, is not less than. It is loved. It is enough.

As disability theologian Sharon Betcher writes in Spirit and the Politics of Disablement:

“The mark of the divine may not be ability or capacity but vulnerability and mutuality.”

In the contemplative way, we are invited to befriend the present moment, the body we have, the story we carry. Not to fix it, but to open it to God. To allow God to love us right here.

I still grieve what I’ve lost. I still wish things were different. But I am learning that even in the ache, there is grace. And maybe, just maybe, this strange and tender body of mine is not the enemy. It is, somehow, the dwelling place of God.

That moment by the lake - seeing that young man so at ease in his body - was intensely painful. But I’ve learned that such triggering moments pass, if I turn and lean into God as my higher power. If I let the ache rise and offer it - raw and unfiltered - into the loving gaze of God, it slowly loses its power to shame or overwhelm me. The wave recedes. In that place, God meets me not with judgment, but with mercy. And in that mercy, I find a deeper truth: I am not that young man, and I do not need to be. I am enough, as I am.

As I grow older, I also recognise the temptation to let fear become the dominant narrative—fear of increasing weakness, further decay, dependence, pain. But I don’t have to live in that future. I don’t have to project dread into tomorrow. The contemplative path gently reminds me to live one day at a time, grounded in the grace of the present moment. I may not be able to control what lies ahead, but I can choose to live now - at peace with my body, at peace with God, and even, slowly, at peace with myself.

Now I know I am not alone in the struggles of increasing physical difficulties, so share some contemplative prayer practices to help if you identify with what I have written.

1. Breath Prayer: "Held by God"

Purpose: To anchor the mind and body in God’s loving presence.

Practice:

• Sit or lie down in a comfortable position. Let your body be supported.

• Begin to notice your breath—no need to change it, just observe.

• As you inhale, pray silently: “Held…”

• As you exhale, pray: “…by God.”

• Repeat slowly for several minutes.

• Let this prayer become your rhythm. If pain or frustration arises, gently return to the breath and the prayer.

Reflection: Your body may feel fragile or failing, but your breath reminds you that you are alive and that God’s Spirit is closer than your own breathing.

2. Loving-Kindness Prayer Toward the Body

Purpose: To heal inner self-criticism and grow compassion for the body as it is.

Practice:

• Bring to mind your body—not as a problem to fix, but as the place where God dwells.

• Place your hand gently over your heart or on a part of the body that aches.

• Silently or aloud, say:

“May this body be at peace.
May this body be held in mercy.
May I love this body, as God does.”

• Spend time simply being with these words. If difficult feelings arise, acknowledge them, and let them be held by God.

Reflection: Your body is not your enemy—it is the very place God meets you, just as Christ met the world through wounded flesh.

3. Imaginative Prayer: Being with the Risen Christ

Purpose: To encounter Jesus in his wounded-and-risen body and find solidarity.

Practice:

• Sit in silence and gently close your eyes.

• Imagine yourself by the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus appears after the resurrection (John 21).

• Picture the Risen Christ walking toward you—still bearing the marks of crucifixion.

• He sits beside you and looks at you with love. You sense he understands physical suffering.

• Ask him silently: “What do you want me to know about my body?”

• Wait in stillness. Let his gaze, his presence, speak to your heart.

Reflection: Christ does not rise unscarred—his brokenness is glorified, not erased. So too with you.

4. Welcoming Prayer for Bodily Pain or Fatigue

Purpose: To stop resisting pain and instead open to God within it.

Practice:

• When you feel physical discomfort, instead of pushing it away, pause and breathe.

• Silently pray:

“Welcome, pain.
I do not like you, but I will not resist you.
I welcome everything this moment holds,
Because God is with me in it.”

• Let God meet you in the feeling—not to take it away, but to hold it with you.

Reflection: As Thomas Keating said, “The Welcoming Prayer is consent on the deepest level to God’s presence in what is happening.”

5. Lectio Divina with Psalm 71:9

“Do not cast me away when I am old; do not forsake me when my strength is gone.”

Purpose: To hear God’s reassurance in the midst of aging.

Practice:

• Read this verse slowly and prayerfully.

• Read it again, and listen for a word or phrase that stands out.

• Let that word echo in your heart. How does it speak to your life now?

• Talk to God honestly about how you feel—your fears, your hopes.

• Sit in silence, letting God’s presence surround you.

Reflection: God’s faithfulness is not tied to your strength. In your weakness, God’s tenderness increases.

6. Journaling with the Body

Purpose: To listen to your body as a teacher, not a burden.

Practice:

• After prayer or meditation, take 10 minutes to write in a journal, responding to the question:

“What is my body teaching me today?”

• Let the writing be honest, uncensored, compassionate. Speak to your body and let it speak back.

• Close your journaling by writing a blessing for your body in your current state.

Reflection: Your body is not a static object. It is a living participant in your spiritual journey.

Photo by AGUNG SUKSMANTO on Unsplash