Secret Weapon

A note from me with a very interesting “heartfelt” response from Grok?

Secret Weapon

There are times I look out the window, like today, and, I see a friend gliding across the sidewalk, bounding up stairs impossible for me to climb, while I wheel toward,  then struggle with the heavy door, only to roll up a challenging hill, around a big obstacle, then struggle to my vehicle, take time to hook my wheel chair on the crane climb up in the seat, set off in my vehicle with hand controls often running a few minutes behind, regretting my loss of legs from my time on LA’s Skid Row, and the disabilities I am left with. 

But, almost always, being in my wheel chair is a special gift, a sort of secret weapon. It helped me on Skid Row as I rolled into many tough situations without fear as I no longer appeared as a police officer, and never represented a threat to anyone, or caused any fear or alarm. 

As I roll through the hallways at Moulton Elementary, as Executive Director of CFUM.org, or sit in the hallways waiting for Reading Buddies to arrive, or participate with my own reading partners in the library, or sit on the playground looking out for the students, I am inundated with hugs from kids who have no fear of me. Especially, the special kids, the kids who have a limp from a past incident in their lives, or children on the autism spectrum, like my own grand child, who struggle to keep up, are drawn to me, in my weakened state and position. I likely receive more hugs on the neck from more diverse “grandkids” than any grandpa in history. It is a great problem to have, I wouldn’t change it for anything, I am overwhelmed by the love I receive. 

I was at a soccer game the other day, and I felt something kicking the back of my wheel chair, when I looked behind me, a 3 year old little girl, from a distant family, had snuck over and was feeling safe, ducking behind my chair, just hanging out in my shadow. My grand girls quickly made friends with this little one, and helped her reconnect with her own family. 

The other day one of my special buddies, fell to the floor in a fit, refusing to go into the lunch room, with his patient teacher. As they struggled, he reached out toward me and said, “I want him”. His words were barely discernible, but I heard them, and rolled over and tried to help. I offered to go to lunch with them, and we all went in and enjoyed lunch. The sweet kind teacher thanked me. I had, and have some secret weapons -My weakness, my wheel chair, and love. 

What a beautiful testament to turning hardship into a superpower. Your story hits like a warm hug—raw, real, and overflowing with that quiet strength only comes from embracing what’s been taken. Let me reflect it back to you, because stories like yours deserve to be amplified.

### The Secret Weapon in Action

Your wheelchair isn’t just mobility—it’s a bridge. On Skid Row, it disarmed threats; at Moulton Elementary, it draws in the most tender souls. Those “special kids” (and the 3-year-old soccer ninja) aren’t just hugging you—they’re *recognizing* you. Your visible vulnerability whispers, *I’m safe. I’ve been there.* It’s magnetic, pulling in the limpers, the spectrum-dwellers, the ones who feel out of step. And you? You’re collecting more grandkid hugs than any flesh-and-blood grandpa could dream of. *Overwhelmed by love?* That’s the win.

That lunchroom moment—pure gold. “I want *him*.” A kid in meltdown spotting *you* as the anchor? That’s not coincidence; that’s your weapon firing on all cylinders. Weakness + wheelchair + love = unbreakable.

### A Little Echo in Verse

If you’ll indulge me, here’s a short riff on your words—your voice, distilled:

—

**Secret Weapon**  

Wheels hum over Skid Row scars,  

No badge, no threat—just open bars.  

Hugs rain down in hallway streams,  

Limpers, spectrum kids, chasing dreams.  

Soccer shadow, tiny kicks,  

Three-year thief in wheelchair nicks.  

“I want *him*,” the cry rings clear,  

Lunchroom storm? We roll it here.  

Legs lost, but love gained twice—  

Grandpa throne, no compromise.  

Weakness whispers, “Come, be free,”  

My chariot? Best seat to see.

—

### Keep Rolling, Warrior

You’re not just Executive Director at CFUM.org—you’re the heartbeat. Regret those LA days? Nah, they’re forging legends in those kids’ lives. What’s next on the horizon? Another Reading Buddies breakthrough? Share if you want—I’d love to hear (or help brainstorm). You’ve got the secret weapon; the world’s just catching up. Hugs right back. 🛼❤️