A man dies. He meets St. Peter at the gates of Heaven and is told that he will be taken on a tour of the Great Beyond before settling in. St. Peter tells him that all human beings have a cross that they cannot see on Earth, but it is revealed to them when they die. The man is told to place his cross in a room adjacent to the Gates. After he finishes his tour, the angels tell him that there has been an error, and he will return to Earth. Before doing so, he can claim a cross back from the room where he had placed his. When he opened the door, he saw crosses that were as tall as skyscrapers, and then he noticed a tiny one in the corner. “I will take that one,” he said. St. Peter responded, “That’s the one you came in with.”
This story was part of a homily that I heard many years ago. I always took it to mean that people should not compare themselves to others; we all have problems, and there are always others with greater burdens than your own. After the events of 2019-20, when I had lost my lower left leg to a serious infection, this tale took on new meaning. I often tell this story to my elementary school students at the beginning of the year, because some of them have likely heard that I am an amputee or noticed that my left leg looks a little unusual, and they are curious. I also tell the story because, by the first week of school, I have read and studied all of the accommodated and modified Individual Education Plans, and have already consulted with families to discuss specific student needs ranging from anxiety, learning exceptionalities, food allergies, disabilities, and frankly a lot of things that will never be written in a report, but are part of a student’s identity and well-being. My focus has always been on how I can do right by all of them. I am a big believer that when given the correct supports, all students can succeed. I also know that students in the latter grades of elementary school are becoming quite self-aware, and their identity is tied to their self-image, self-perception, and the opinion of their peers. In a society that both values and documents individualism (social media) and collective solidarity, students are often at the crossroads. They wish to be recognized as individuals but tend to conform to the norms and standards they feel are attributed to them, and that anything out of the ordinary regarding them must be gently handled. Therefore, telling them that we all have our own crosses to bear has been a message which is not lost on them. Making myself the primary example is the ultimate icebreaker.
On my left shoulder, fear has become my unfortunate companion; yet, on my right, faith and humour act as countermeasures throughout each day. Embarrassing myself by falling is a constant worry, but I am not alone in this preoccupation. My students struggle with the possibility of losing face all of the time. They see that in many ways I am on the same journey as they are. I am able to counteract it by breaking through the desire to hide or shelter myself from things and rather openly talk about my disability when the moment arises. As an example, when we discuss accommodations for students like preferential seating, assistive technology and frequent check-ins, I will make these adjustments quite commonplace and sensible. I will state the benefits of being physically challenged with such humorous statements like: You can’t beat the parking locations. I save a fortune on socks and shoes. In short, students see that accommodations are everywhere and commonplace.
We see students for seven hours during the day. What we do not witness is the entire context of their lives at home with family and in the community. They look to us as models for certain virtues, and while many of them regard educators as near perfect, it is important to show them that we are most certainly not. We are trying to do our best with the virtues of perseverance, humility, and empathy. Whether I am taking a moment to adjust my leg or need to grip the railing to go down the stairs to recess duty, students see that I, too, am struggling with myself and the world around me. They don’t look at me as the perfect person but can empathize that I am wrestling with my own challenges. We sympathize with each other; we suffer together (from the Greek). The reluctance to seek help has always been a point of pain for students. Many regard raising their hand during a lesson and asking for help as a demonstration of ineptitude or personal weakness. Following the COVID pandemic, the need for extra help has been further stifled by a perception that one of the only silver linings of this era for students, the inheritance of greater autonomy and freedom, might be restricted or curtailed if adults continue to see a need for dependence. Convincing students that asking for help is the first step forward in their development and identity continues to be challenging. However, I have found that my disability has aided in this dynamic. During a recent fire drill, I was unable to walk up a hill, and one of my students came over and offered his arm in order to help me. No request. No comment afterwards, just immediate help.
Many young people are looking for God and will ask how He speaks to us in these modern times. They search for signs of faith and occurrences that might suddenly manifest themselves. As a teacher of religion, I respond to this by saying that the world we live in has become noisy. If we quieten ourselves in mind and body, we may become more open to His will. Students are also looking to hear how adults in their lives interacted with spirituality in times of trouble. Their world often sees proof as their determinant for truth. It is here where I tell my story of Providence Villa. Founded by the Sisters of St. Joseph in 1857, it serves not only as a centre for long-term care but also as a rehabilitation facility for persons recovering from amputation and other health care needs. After being in the hospital for some six weeks, I was told that I should go to Providence Villa for rehab for another three to four weeks. I flatly refused, just wanting to go home. As the night wore on, I fell asleep and dreamt of walking in Montreal by St. Joseph’s Oratory. (My great-uncles Anton, Joseph, and Sylvester Schormann helped to build the Oratory’s altar.) In my dream, I looked down and saw that I had a prosthetic leg and an older French-Canadian woman was walking with me who said in her accent, “See, Manfred, you are walking.” Morning came, and I had been told someone from Providence Villa was coming to speak with me. At about 5:40 p.m., a woman came to my room and asked if I would go to Providence Villa. I froze from shock and immediately said, “Yes!” She had commented that the staff at the hospital said that I would probably resist going. I told her that it would be no problem, and I would tell her about why I agreed.
Some two weeks into my stay, I was in my wheelchair, on the building’s lower level, when I spotted something familiar. Engraved in stone, from the original location of Providence Villa, was the acronym AMDG (Ad majórem Dei glóriam), a Latin phrase translating to “For the greater glory of God.” It is the motto of the Society of Jesus (Jesuits), meaning, “A life dedicated to doing all things for God’s glory.” To this day, I write AMDG on the class calendar for each month. That night, feeling some sadness, I slowly traced my finger through the engraving. I took this as a sign of hope that I would eventually be back in my classroom. Students experience frustration, and the virtue of perseverance is not an easy one for them to understand, as the world they live in is based on immediate gratification. I relay this moment, additionally offering the saying, “We want things to happen in our time, and sometimes they occur in God’s time.”
Humour and disability seem to be quite the juxtaposition, but as the saying goes, if you’re not laughing, you’re probably crying. During my first few years of wearing a prosthetic leg, I did everything I could to try to hide it. Once, some preteens were staring at me in a doctor’s office, and I suggested that I had lost my leg to a shark attack in Lake Ontario. Eventually, I became so adept at walking and even running that colleagues and students were surprised when they finally saw my artificial limb. After I grew more comfortable, wearing shorts on sports and warm days was no longer out of the question. I knew I would be peppered with questions, especially in my classes with younger students, which turned into what can only be described as press conferences because of the sheer number of questions asked. Most students tended to call it my robot leg, and some compared me to Darth Vader. Above all, I would tell the students in my class that I live a normal life and that I do not need their pity. Like the carrying the cross story, they saw this as my cross and understood as they had their own unique crosses to carry.
Being a lower-leg amputee and teacher is not easy. I run clubs, coach sports teams, have yard duty, and love experiential teaching. There is nothing I enjoy more than telling a funny story or one that also includes a moral lesson. While my leg may have been amputated some six years ago, my spirit and faith remain well intact. I take on challenges, win and lose, and hope that my students will absorb something from my teaching—if nothing else but to be a good person who can make a difference. My disability has perhaps stirred empathy, but, more importantly, it has placed me squarely on the road of growth and development right there with my students. They can see that empathy, hope, and perseverance are not virtues of the past and that, above all, faith is a real force that works in all of their lives. While they may face hurdles, catastrophes, setbacks and loss, Christ continues to walk with them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Manfred J. von Vulte
Manfred J. von Vulte B.A., B.Ed., M.A., OCT. Manfred has been an educator for twenty-five years. He currently teaches Grade 6 at St. John XXIII in Oshawa, ON, in the Durham Catholic District School Board. He is the school’s Faith Ambassador. He is also a member of the Knights of Columbus Council 11268 in Newcastle, ON.
This article is featured in Canadian Teacher Magazine’s Fall 2026 issue.
