Reserved Parking

Since I use supplemental O2 when I'm active, I'm eligible for a handicapped parking sticker.

I fought against getting one for months.

If I had one of those things hanging from my rear view mirror, it would mean admitting that I'm not normal, that the ordinary act of going to the store is much more of a production number for me. I didn't want to think of myself as disabled.

Still don't.

I guess I was too prideful to admit I'd be helped by having easier access to shops and places of business.

But then I started thinking about how much a handicap placard would help my family. My Dear Husband doesn't qualify for a sign, but he's had one knee surgery and may need more. He wouldn't say no to a shorter jaunt into wherever we're going.

We often travel with my parents who, though they are both still active, really appreciate snagging a close parking space.

So, I swallowed my pride and went to the DMV. It wasn't hard to get two hanging signs. They were even free. And because the fact that I use O2 is pretty obvious, I didn't even have to have a letter from my doctor.

Now when I pull into one of those blue-labeled spaces, I try not to think of it as handicapped parking. I prefer to think of it as "reserved!" Everywhere I go, I get bumped to the head of the line. It's not that I demand it, or feel in any way entitled. People just seem to want to go out of their way to be kind.

I have decided to let them.

Jesus said it's more blessed to give than to receive. Most of the time, that's true. I'd much rather be the one in a position to give.

But at the same time, I feel blessed by the kindness of a society that makes allowances for people with mobility issues.

It just took me a while to acquire enough grace and humility to accept it.