MSI Press Blog

When Noelle was ready for entry into elementary school, she was already very active with her braces and quite socially advanced. She made friends easily. Mainstreaming was just coming into popular use, and we all decided that we wanted Noelle in a regular classroom. The school agreed, then little "differences" cropped up.  "You do not have to stand for the pledge of allegiance," her teacher told her.  Yes, she did, I retorted. If everybody else stands, she stands. It meant that she had to become adept, very adept and quick, at standing up, locking her braces while standing, then unlocking them and sitting down. She managed it and was very adept the rest of the years that she wore braces at changing positions. She had to in order to fit in, and that was not a bad thing. That was commonsense. Then, the principle scarfed up an old wheelchair and placed it at the corner of the school so that she could watch everyone else playing during recess. All the handicapped childr...

  In her lifetime, Noelle has had two amputations—each one a study in her extraordinary, almost disarming practicality. The first happened because of what can only be described as a silly accident. Somehow, she managed to catch her toe in the spokes of her wheelchair. Why she was barefoot, I still cannot tell you. She shouldn’t have been; she’s supposed to protect her feet precisely because she can’t feel them. In fact, she has no sensation below the waist. So when her toe got caught, she simply kept rolling. The toe tore mostly off, and the only thing that alerted her was the trail of blood she noticed on the floor as she moved. Off to surgery she went. Off with the toe. No drama. Noelle is a pragmatist to her core. A toe she couldn’t feel meant nothing to her. The well‑meaning doctor, unfamiliar with the matter‑of‑factness that often accompanies life as a paraplegic, tried to offer empathy during the post‑op conversation. Gently, she asked Noelle whether she was “missing” her...

Precerpt from  Raising God’s Rainbow Makers (Mahlou) How Noelle Got Her Name When Noelle was born, Lizzie was four—our only child at the time, waiting at home with the babysitter while her baby sister was being airlifted 250 miles south to San Antonio for urgent care. Noelle had arrived with spina bifida, and the specialized treatment she needed wasn’t available in San Angelo. We were part of the hippie generation, drawn to names that danced outside the lines. So we chose  Anemone Esther —a name as delicate and wild as a sea flower, full of meaning to us. We filled out the birth certificate with care, believing we’d chosen something beautiful. But when we got home and told Lizzie her sister’s name, she burst into tears. “You can’t name her that,” she sobbed. “I hate it.” We asked why. “Because I can’t say it!” she wailed. Fair enough. So we asked her what name she’d choose. “Noelle,” she said promptly. “I like Christmas music.” And just like that, Anemone Esther became Noelle....

  Precerpt from  Raising God’s Rainbow Makers (Mahlou) Noelle: Charming Ways Every week, I’d drive Noelle to Andi’s house in the Pittsburgh suburbs. It was our sacred little errand—part therapy, part friendship, part “Mom’s Taxi Service.” Noelle, my bright-eyed girl with crayon-blue eyes and leg braces that pointed straight ahead like tiny silver skis, would sit beside me in the passenger seat, chatting about everything from butterflies to Bible verses. One morning, I was running late. The kind of late where you start praying for time to bend like a Marvel movie. I zipped through the neighborhood in my bright orange car (which, let’s be honest, was basically a traffic cone with wheels), and in my rush, I missed a stop sign. The cop didn’t. Siren. Lights. Gulp. I pulled over, already rehearsing my apology and wondering if “I’m a mom on a mission” counted as a legal defense. The officer peered in. Noelle sat beside me, her braces poking forward, her blonde hair wispy as a whispe...