I sat in the pew, and for the first time in my 25 years of attendance, I was angry at my church. I was angry at the pastors. I was angry because, as a woman with a disability, change sometimes makes my life very difficult, and this was a hard change indeed.

We’d already transitioned from taking communion monthly to weekly, and I’d just gotten all the pastors “trained” to hand me the little cup of juice as I approached the altar. My hands don’t work well due to AMC (Anthrogryposis Multiplex Congenita), so I’d usually feed myself with my feet, but I had difficulty grabbing the thimble-sized cup from its home in the big silver tray. I’d almost gotten to a point where filing to the front for communion didn’t cause me to panic . . . but now this.

That Sunday, my pastor walked us through the new process. We would be dismissed row by row to approach the front, where we’d each take our own little chunk of bread, dip it in the cup, and eat it before returning to our seats. I rolled it around and around in my mind as I tried to work out a way I could partake without having to plop down on the ground in front of the whole congregation to eat with my feet, since my hands can’t reach my mouth or even the cup. One might think, after living with this disability for so long, I’d be used to the stares, but no. The last thing I wanted was to hold up the line under the lights in front of my whole church. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks every time I thought about it.

How a Grown Woman Throws a Fit

For a couple of Sundays, I found excuses to stay home from church. Yes, it was incredibly immature for this 30-year-old woman to stay home and pout for a couple weeks, but that’s ...

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