When I was a little older, at about primary-school stage, Shéri and I became close friends. Friends who also had some proper fights. We swam and often played “school”. I liked irritating her, I tickled her, made jokes, and when she had to do her homework, I pushed little notes under her door. One of these incidents led to concussion when I tried to get away after she’d opened the door and I bumped my head on the door frame.
When we were playing on a Sunday afternoon, I would tease her to the extent that she’d start yelling. Afraid that Mom would scold me, I’d say: “You’re not a baby, don’t yell like that.” But if anyone else tried anything similar with her, I’d be the first to object.
Shéri’s friends who came to visit were mostly from Martie du Plessis School. I played with all of them and never found any disability strange. I was very impressed with the kids in wheelchairs. Some of them could paint with their feet and do tricks with the wheelchairs.
As I grew older, and now in my job as a speech therapist, I’ve developed a great deal of empathy for parents of children with disabilities and for disabled people themselves. Maybe because I know a little about this journey.
Besides the things that Shéri taught me when I was small, she also helped me when I had to prepare for school tests. When my dad or mom were not home, she’d ask me questions to make sure that I knew my work. She especially helped me with Southern Sotho.
I don’t remember people ever staring at us because of Shéri. All our friends accepted her 100 per cent and never treated her as if she were “different”.
These days it has become difficult to go anywhere without people looking at her. I assume it’s because she’s had a role in Binnelanders, and because of her various TV interviews. I also stare at people whom I’ve seen on TV.
I remember one Friday evening when I was in my teens, some boys from Sentraal High School came to visit. One of my friends brought along his cousin. When he introduced us, they pretended that the cousin was disabled. Just then Shéri walked in, and both guys went pale with shock. They didn’t know about her. My friends and I all burst out laughing.
Laughing is something that our family is quite good at. Laughing for and with one another. So we could laugh for and with Shéri, and she could do the same.
My mother succeeded in maintaining an extremely good balance with all her children. She gave Shéri all the help and opportunities that she possibly could, while making sure that Marisa and I could fulfil our dreams. I never felt that one of us was favoured. My grandmother was a different story altogether, but I just laughed about it and was never jealous of the extra attention she gave Shéri.
Shéri often had to accompany my mother when she took me and Marisa to debating competitions or when we performed in the Bloemfontein Children’s Choir concerts, or to say goodbye when we left on choir tours overseas. I felt bad that she had to stay behind.
It was difficult for Shéri, too. But my mother assured us that one day Shéri would also find her place in the sun. Looking at her today, I know that she has indeed found it. These days my mother accompanies her almost every week when she addresses audiences and when she flies overseas to tell her remarkable story. It makes me so happy.
Over the years I’ve wondered how new people in my life would react to Shéri. Would they act normally or perhaps be a bit uneasy and not know what to say? It proved to be no problem for my husband, Jaco, although he’d never before had contact with disabled people. He’s a bit like me, so he immediately began teasing her and cracking jokes. It was difficult for me when we announced our engagement. Sometimes I was heartbroken knowing that dearest Shéri would never experience the wonderful feeling of being engaged and getting married.
The older I get, the more I want to protect her. I want to protect her against any hardships in life, in times of sadness, when she might feel that she doesn’t belong. But I can’t always do that. And that sometimes makes my heart ache.
Shéri’s story, as well as her strong belief, strengthens my own belief time and time again. God says in his Word that He looks after his children who praise his name. I sometimes wonder whether some people are jealous of Shéri’s success, people who do not have the faintest clue of the road travelled by her and my mother, and how difficult it sometimes was. But God still opens doors for them – every day, every week and every month – to share her story of hope with the world, because it is through Jesus Christ and extremely hard work that Shéri has achieved what she has. I also believe that the doors will keep on opening for as long as her testimony gives hope and remains to his glory.
The way my parents raised me
My mother has taught me to be independent. There was a time when I did not even know how to cook an egg. Now I can do that, and much more.
When my mother and Uncle Sam went away for three days at the beginning of 2017, I stayed at home all on my own.
I loved doing my own thing and looking after myself. I asked friends over and visited our wonderful neighbour, but I slept on my own and prepared my own, healthy food.
When I fly to Johannesburg, Cape Town or Durban to make a speech, my mother just leaves me at the drop-off zone at the airport. I know how to get my boarding pass. I read the notice boards and follow the arrows. The organisers of the conferences also drop me off like that afterwards. I go through security and have a cup of coffee at the Wimpy before I walk to the gate to wait for my plane. To travel like this on my own makes me feel very good about myself.
I remember how, every Christmas in Bloemfontein, we acted out the birth of Christ. Marisa was the narrator, and Mary. Suzette was the angel Gabriel, and baby Jesus, and I was Joseph. Marisa told us what to do. I, of course, had my own ideas as well.
My mother and father taught us that Christmas was not about the food or presents, but about God’s love for us, that He loved us so much that He sent his son Jesus to us. We celebrate this at Christmas.
During my childhood we had wonderful Christmases in Calvinia with one of my father’s brothers, Gerrit, and his wife, Louise. On Christmas eve we’d open our presents after Uncle Gerrit had read from the Bible, and we’d pray. We also sang Christmas carols. On Christmas day we went to church. One year, when Zettie was still small, our family sat in the front row of the church in Calvinia. All of a sudden the minister announced that there was a mothers’ room. He clearly thought that my mother should take the three of us there, but he obviously didn’t know that we were used to going to church. We knew all about keeping quiet and behaving in church.
The first cruise the Brynard family took was on the Sinfonia. My grandmother said she’d pay for me if my parents paid for themselves and my sisters. I shared a luxurious cabin with my gran, but the one my father, mother and sisters shared was tiny. If one of them stood, the others had to lie on their beds.
It was the holiday of a lifetime!
Christmas on board was the most wonderful ever. I will never forget that Christmas eve. Late that afternoon the rest of the family came to our cabin, my dad with the Bible under his arm. We read from the Bible, prayed and opened our presents, and then joined the other passengers.
The waitresses and young women who were responsible for all sorts of wonderful programmes at night, were sad. They were feeling homesick because it was Christmas. My father and mother noticed. They comforted them, hugged them and asked them about their families back home. Some of them even cried a little. But I think it meant something to them that, on that special night, my parents were almost like a second father and mother to them.
Bit by the travel bug at three months
If my father and mother succeeded at one thing, it was to ensure that the travel bug would bite me. I love travelling by train, boat, plane and bus.
When my grandmother looked after me when I was a baby, she got me to sleep by rocking me. I’m still mad about anything with wheels or wings