There's nothing like seeing yourself in the eyes of a child. Or even a couple of them. But forty of 'em? All at the same time? Whoa! "Oh, please come speak to the kids in our Sunday School," the religious education director pleaded. "They're working on the first Principle this year: to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person." It seems they wanted a guest who was "differently abled" and, well, that was me. If you've learned to say "no" to a request like that, let me know how. On second thought, don't. Instead, maybe I can convince you to say "yes."

In the few moments before chapel began, the children looked curiously at me as I drove up front in my electric scooter, oxygen canula in my nose. As the RE director began speaking, I looked out at the children, parents, and Sunday School teachers. "KK has joined us this morning and, after chapel, will spend time with the first-graders," she said. "I've asked KK to talk with them about being differently abled, but first I thought you might all like to hear from her." And with that, the floor was mine. For an instant, I felt jittery. Then, I took a deep breath and began.

"How am I like you?" I asked. I could see surprise on some of the faces. They'd expected an emphasis on how I was different. Nevertheless, hands shot up immediately. "You're wearing glasses," one boy said. "You have short hair," a curly-top offered. "You've got a fanny pack," an older child said, pleased at making the observation.

"And how am I different?" I asked. "What do I have that you don't?" A sea of hands waved; many of the children bounced up and down, eager to be called on. "You've got a tube in your nose!" "You're in a wheelchair!" Both comments were greatly illustrated with fingers up noses and motions of steering the tiller of my electric scooter.

"Right!" I told them. "What do you think this tube is for?" I asked, holding up a piece of my canula. "Oxygen?" a boy asked tentatively. "Yes. Do any of you have questions about that?" The questions were thoughtful and genuinely inquisitive. Does the oxygen hurt? Does it tickle? Why do I use it? Would I always have to use it? Do I use it in my sleep? The same back and forth occurred when we got to my electric scooter. They wanted to know how fast it would go, whether or not I can do "wheelies," and did I get flat tires. In what seemed like only a few moments, any discomfort on my part -- and theirs -- was completely gone. To my surprise, I was having fun!

I spent the rest of the time with fourteen first-graders. "One of KK's health situations is arthritis," a leader told them. "Things that are simple for us to do are hard for her." Half the class were given socks to put on their hands, then shirts to put on and button up. The other half-tied their knees together and tried to walk and get into chairs. Meanwhile, the children's questions continued. "How do you dress?" "Why do you have a cane?" "What if your oxygen runs out?" One shy girl whispered hers: "How do you use the bathroom?"

What happened in between questions that morning is the reason I'll say "yes" in the future and want to suggest you also say "yes" when asked to speak to groups of children in your religious affiliation, local schools, or area childrens' organizations. From someone foreign, even a little scary, I turned into an actual person for those children. They touched the oxygen canula, tried the horn on my scooter, found out that I laugh and have intelligence and respond to generous hugs. They discovered that people who look different or who use assistive health devices can join in life and are approachable. They saw my selfhood.

And me? I found out that by being honest and straightforward, I could allay fears that are normal to children faced with someone who is different from them. I learned that by responding to their natural curiosity, I could bring my humanity to them before they reach an age where it wouldn't be considered "polite" for them to ask such pointed questions, thereby creating a "them" and "us" mentality. I came away from the experience rejuvenated and cheerful--and willing to say "yes" to doing it again.

A couple of weeks later, I received a large envelope in the mail. It was filled with notes and drawings from the first-graders. There was an "I love you" picture with the requisite sun, sky, and clouds. There was one of me on my scooter, the front basket filled to the brim, a smile on my face. It's a smile that has stayed in my heart.