Skelling Michael and Need: How Inconvenience Can Be a Grace—Kevan Chandler
- Kevan Chandler
- Jul 9
- 7 min read
By Kevan Chandler
Note: This post is a segment from the book The Hospitality of Need by Kevan Chandler and Tommy Shelton, now available from the Rabbit Room Store.
You can also join us for a book release party with Kevan and Tommy on Thursday, July 24 at North Wind Manor.
When you hear (or in this case, read) the word “need,” what comes to mind? Maybe you think of your own specific needs, or those of a loved one; maybe words like “lack” or “unfortunate” or “priority” pop up; or maybe it’s not a word for you so much as a feeling, such as shame, weariness, or anxiety. Typically, we think of need as a bad thing. It’s associated with weakness and dependence, and we don’t like it. But what if we saw needs as opportunities? Living now for 39 years with a neuromuscular disease, I’ve had a lot of experience with need, which we’ll get more into later. But as I’ve relied on folks over the years to help me in both the most basic and ridiculous ways, I have seen God do some remarkable things in me, in them, and in the world around us. The following is one such example . . .
My friends and I had been in Europe for three weeks. Of our own accord, we left my power wheelchair home in the States, and four guys carried me in a backpack everywhere we went. A world usually inaccessible to wheelchair users became our playground. So far on our trip, we had danced with gypsies by the Seine River, run away from nuns in a Paris cathedral, and hiked the English countryside with cows and a local friend. Now, we were at the end of our journey. Standing on the coast of Ireland, we looked out upon the final adventure before heading home. In video game terms, we were at our “boss battle,” and the boss was an island called Skellig Michael.
This mountain in the ocean is a place of rich, ancient history, a jagged rock sticking out of the Atlantic with a sixth-century monastery at its peak. The six hundred stone steps leading upward are steep and winding, so that its innate dangers, along with its Christian heritage, make it a walk of reverence for all who set foot there.
I was carried up those old steps about three-quarters of the way by my friend Tom, our friend Luke filming every bit of it. We stopped to rest at a plateau called Christ’s Saddle and take in the view. Then Philip, another friend, carried me the rest of the way up. We reached the top, rounded the monastery, and then headed back down to the same midpoint, where Tom took over once again for the rest of the descent.
At the start of our climb, a kindly groundskeeper pulled us aside. He had sprigs of gray hair tucked behind his ears, and they fluttered in the Irish wind as he encouraged us to be careful, to take our time, and to watch our step. Looking up at the climb ahead of us, we agreed wholeheartedly and did just that.
Tom squeezed the trekking poles as he placed one before the other and then again. Philip held on tight for support to the heavy chains drilled into the rocks. We were often passed by other hikers, slipping around us when the path afforded them space. After all, my guys had a person on their backs, so our pace would be different from that of our fellow pilgrims.
At times, it got to me. I wasn’t there to intentionally affect anyone else’s experience in England or Ireland. Like everyone else, my friends and I just wanted to climb that mossy crag and check out a monastery. But because our circumstances were different, due to my needs, we stuck out like a sore thumb, caused a ruckus wherever we went, and inevitably got in other people’s way.
It’s the story of my life and the common narrative of need. Whether I’m traveling or at home, because of my disability, pretty much anything I do is going to require more of me and others. I don’t like this fact for myself or my friends and family. Everything takes longer. Everything takes more forethought and effort. Everything involves more people and also disrupts more people. There’s a temptation to assume this is a bad thing, but maybe it’s actually a grace.
In Rich Mullins’s song “Calling Out Your Name,” he sings, “From the place where morning gathers, you can look sometimes forever ’til you see what time may never know . . . how the Lord takes by its corners this old world, and shakes us forward and shakes us free.” I wonder if need is one of the ways the Lord takes by its corners this old world. Perhaps our inconveniences are more liberating than we often give them credit for.
Needs shake us, whether they belong to us or someone else. If we’re in proximity, they can change us. They can cause us—force us—to slow down or keep up, to think and act differently from our norm. They can pull us out of our comfort zones and disrupt the ideal rhythms by which we usually function. They can either set right the broken or break the too-perfect.
Concerning “troubles” and “interruptions,” C. S. Lewis once pointed out to his friend Owen Barfield at the start of World War II that “since nothing but these forcible shakings will cure us of our worldliness, we have at bottom reason to be thankful for them.” He even goes as far as to call these shakings God’s “surgical treatment.” Rich seemed to have the same idea as he wrote his song.
Our Father loves us dearly and calls us back to himself, and often utilizes the inherent needs he designed us with—broken though they are now by sin—to show us the way home. Needs can shake us forward and shake us free, to delve deeper into vulnerability and fellowship: The next line of Rich’s song calls it hope. What we find there, if we go, is a sense of holy purpose and belonging, unlike anything the rest of the world can offer. We find the attachment God created us to experience with him, his Trinity, and each other.
As we came down the side of Skellig Michael, I could feel Tom’s labored breathing. It had been a long day, with a seven-mile boat ride and a strenuous climb up the island. He was exhausted, and so was Philip. I was, too, for that matter. We were ready to be back on the mainland with the rest of our team, enjoying fish and chips at a pub. Just a few hundred steps left to go, and then the boat ride back.
Far below, we could see our boat waiting, the captain growing impatient. We were going as fast as we could, but that wasn’t very fast, and downhill requires more caution than up, so tensions mounted. And the queue at our heels was piling up. My head pounded with the words of our captain when we were getting off the boat two hours earlier. He’d said if we weren’t back in time, he’d leave us. I believed him. No one dared to go around us because of where we were on the path and the need for safety upon descent. And that meant their captains were waiting for them too.
I was getting self-conscious again, the whole island lining up behind us, everyone running late to their boats. But Tom carried on. He squeezed the trekking poles and took another step down. Philip stayed close, spotting us as we slowly went. When a step was wider, or Tom just felt confident, he would pause for a moment of rest. Taking advantage of the beat, he would look up and out across the water, taking in the view with a smile.
“Wow,” he’d say, and sometimes he’d just laugh and shake his head.
Philip got distracted by rocks or the occasional puffin popping out to watch us. Even in the rush of getting back to the boats and home, my friends still found joy in our journey. And I couldn’t help but do the same. The guys and I had to go slowly, which offered us the profound opportunity to truly see the world around us. We could have pushed through, stressing about the time and what others would think or say of us. Instead, we accepted the hospitality of need and enjoyed the sweet moment we found ourselves in.
Two hours earlier, we had looked up at an impossible climb, and now we made our descent from the top. We stood on an island with a 1,500-year-old monastery on it, not somewhere you get to be every day. The epic experience was coming to an end, and because of our need to rest and step carefully, that end was delayed a bit . . . not just for my friends and me.
About halfway down the mountain, when the line behind us was at its longest, people began talking to us. At first, a few of them just kindly said, “No problem,” when we looked back to apologize. After awhile, their “No problem” turned into “Take your time.” Then, encouragement, and finally, conversation. The pileup became a parade of heroes. We descended all together, laughing and talking, reveling in life, relishing the vast wonder of creation, enriched by the camaraderie around us.
And no one missed their boats.
Kevan Chandler is the founder of the nonprofit We Carry Kevan, and speaks worldwide about friendship and disability. He is the co-author of The Hospitality of Need. Kevan and his wife, Katie, love being together, growing vegetables and reading to each other.
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Story photos courtesy of Kevan Chandler
