Brian Gault was born in Northern Ireland in 1960 with no arms due to the “completely safe” drug prescribed for his mother’s morning sickness—Thalidomide. I’ve just finished reading his autobiography, Look, No Hands.

Here are two impacts of the book on me.

1. Brian Gault’s is one of many stories of adults who, as children, suffered from efforts and experiments to try to make life better. Most undertakings began with good intentions, but along the way medical personnel often forgot this was a child, not a puzzle or problem to be solved. During an epidemic like polio or a crisis like the rush of Thalidomide-affected babies, there may have been little time for niceties. But a child only knows his own misery and loneliness.

Brian was separated for ten weeks from his family—at age 2—to be fitted and trained with artificial arms. They were a constant friction, literally and in every other way, until he was thirteen.

At last I put my foot down. “I will not wear these awful arms again,” I declared. “I can do anything and everything much better without them. . . . Please let me do things my own way. I don’t need artificial arms.”

To my surprise, my complaints were finally heard. . . .

I was ecstatic. . . . After eleven years of trying to be someone else’s idea of what I ought to be, could I now relax and be myself at last? . . .

Artificial arms did nothing for me except make me look “normal,” but I wanted my own outline—and my outline did not include arms. I was Brian who happened to have no arms. I was not incapable or dependent. (p. 88)

Brian’s parents hoped they were doing the best thing for him. As a mother, a story like this helps me empathize with parents who agonize over the best thing—is there a “best” thing?—for their child. I am reminded that prayer is essential for families facing medical and therapeutic challenges—prayer for confidence in God far beyond confidence in science.

2.  A second impact of the book is the reality that not everyone we might call “disabled” thinks of himself or herself in that way. As a young adult, Brian met Joni Eareckson Tada and heard her speak to a large international gathering.

The conference had centered on the need to include people with disabilities into all aspects of the life of the church. Joni had thrown out the challenge to minister to the disabled community, making the love of Christ truly accessible to all.

My personal opinion had always been that I was not “disabled”—just unique. It did not really occur to me that I needed to become accepted in the church. Christ made me as I am—he certainly accepted me and he fits me for service. But what of others who may be unique in some way? . . . Some were hurting and rejected. These were the people Christ needed us to reach. Could I be one of those whom God was calling to take up the challenge? (p. 174)

Just as with any other community of people, “the disabled” are not a homogenous, one-attitude-fits-all group.  My natural assumption would be that a man with no arms is disabled. But that would be jumping to conclusions. I need to wait and find out from him who he is and through him how God is working.

My thirteenth year proved momentous in two ways. First and most importantly, it was the year when I realized that God existed and that he loved me, personally. But even more, he loved me as I was. I did not need to have arms to be “complete.” He had made me unique and special. He made me to live without arms. So significantly, my thirteenth year was the year I refused to wear arms any more. From that time on I could be myself; I could do the work God prepared for me to do; I could joyfully say, “Look, Mum—no hands!” (p. 199)

I am thankful for Bethlehem Baptist’s attitude toward people with special needs—not primarily that we minister to or for them, but rather: “We aim to be a place where those with special needs can serve and be meaningfully engaged in the various activities and ministries of the church.”

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well” (Psalm 139:13-14).

Noel Piper