I spent a couple of days this week on a shoot at an MDA camp for kids. I wasn’t entirely thrilled at the prospect of going, because I was really afraid that my hypochondria might kick in and get the best of me.
Of the kids who attended, most weren’t in wheelchairs. In fact, most were quite ambulatory, able to take care of themselves with only a little difficulty. There were telltale signs that they were affected by one of the forty or so neuromuscular diseases, but for the most part, the majority of them didn’t look as though anything was wrong.
Ironically, that made it harder.
Because you watch them walking on their own, laughing, playing, and you know what’s coming down the road for them.
And so do they.
It’s an inescapable reality that’s always there.
There was one kid in particular who seemed to really symbolize for me what I was seeing. He’s six years old or so with big blue eyes and a smile that’s probably already enough to make the ladies melt. He doesn’t need a wheelchair, but his dad says the boy’s aware that one day he will.
Yet at camp, this kid was always smiling, always making friends, always having a good time.  Just like the others.
They’re dealing with a dim prognosis, yet enjoying every moment.  The rest of us are dealing with what the grand scheme of things might label a pretty good life, yet we usually fail to make time to count our blessings because we let ourselves get so bogged down in the little stuff.
What’s wrong with this picture?