Sometimes Bent

But

Never Broken

The Autobiography of Dr. Ed Harris

PrefaceThe Twenty-third Psalm

I invite you to join me on a journey. There will be no need for you to bring

anything with you because our guide, the Good Shepherd, the Lord Jesus Christ, has

promised to supply all that we will need along the way. He will lead us through green

pastures and beside calm water. He will lead us in paths of righteousness. We will go

through the valley of the shadow of death without fear because He is with us. If we

trust our guide, goodness and mercy will follow us and we will arrive safely at our

destination–His House–where we will be with Him forever.

I am referring to the passage of scripture which we know as The Twenty-third

Psalm. It is perhaps the most beloved Psalm written by David. It begins, “The Lord is

my shepherd.” Who is the Lord? Why is He called a shepherd? Jesus says “I am the

good shepherd and know my sheep and am known of mine. As the Father knoweth

me, even so know I the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.” (John 10:14,15

KJV)

The Lord is the sustainer. Psalm 8 tells us that the moon and the stars are the

works of His fingers; and He controls them all, as it were, by His fingertips. His

handiwork is revealed throughout the universe. God the creator is my Lord, He is my

shepherd, He is Master of all creation. He knows my needs even better than I and he is

able to supply every need in my life. He is the leader of His flock.

Jesus referred to Himself as the good Shepherd; and, in John 10:3,4 KJV, it is

written “To him the porter openeth and the sheep hear his voice; and he calleth his own

sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he

goeth before them, and the sheep follow him for they know his voice.” Why then

would a good shepherd lead his sheep through the valleys of depression, pain, and

death rather than on a bright sunlit hilltop? I know it is because He wants me to trust

him in the valleys of the shadow of death. In the deepest depression, we sometimes

lose our perspective; however, God is with us even in our despair and grief.

Some would question a loving God leading his people through the valleys of

death, but a sovereign God knows what He is doing. He may be doing this for a test, or

he may be doing it for reasons unknown to any of us – and we don’t need to know the

answers. Even if we did know the answers, it might not change the situation in which

we find ourselves. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I

will fear no evil for thou art with me . . ..” He goes with us into the darkness, pain and

sorrow. He experienced the shadow of death.

He knows precisely what it is like to live in human flesh. The shepherds cannot

fully understand what it is like to become a sheep–but the Lord, who is my Shepherd,

understands the human frame. He was disabled when nailed to the cross. Paralyzed,

He could not move and was blinded by tears. He understands my frame too, for I am

almost blind, paralyzed, and nailed to a wheelchair. He understands your frame as

well.

Duty without love is only a job. Duty with love is the fulfillment of life. The

sheep’s table was prepared in green pastures. There, the sheep graze peacefully,

oblivious to harm, because the shepherds protect them and become their providers.

The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall have no reason to fear in these green pastures, beside

the still waters, and even beside the turbulent treacherous waters, and through the

valley of the light and shadows. He will lead me. He will forever lead me even if the

path seems rocky, steep, and treacherously unknown. We will never be alone, for it is

the Lord that knows the way we take and it is the Lord that will never leave nor forsake

us. Let’s begin our journey . . .

- - Dr. Edward Harris

2

Chapter 1

Gone Fishing

The words of The Twenty-third Psalm came vividly to mind one day over twenty-

years ago while I was on a fishing trip with my father and my uncle. We were riding

along in the pickup truck, east bound toward a mountain-valley lake nestled in the

heart of the western Colorado wonderland. A place of storybook beauty. We had just

driven through a mountain pass and, as I looked down toward the valley below, I saw

bright green pastures over low rolling hills, sprinkled with tall stately trees, and

brilliant blue sky embraced by alabaster clouds that seemed to caress the peaks of the

purple-shadowed mountains. It was a warm inviting summer day. The higher the trail

wound the cooler the crisp morning air became.

A sense of peace came over me as I was meditating on the beauty around me.

Suddenly, we came upon a large flock of sheep. Our pickup slowed down to a snail’s

pace and we soon found ourselves in the middle of the undulating flock. As three

riders on horseback threaded the sheep through this small mountain trail, they whistled

and shouted while their three stock dogs followed closely behind and along the sides of

this great mass. I surmised the cowboys had risen early that morning in the chilling

cold.

As I watched, one sheep broke away from the flock and ran down a ravine.

Another sheep followed, and another, until the dogs and horsemen succeeded in

stopping this break in the ranks and brought back the straying wanderers. These

shepherds did their jobs well. I thought of my Shepherd and Guide, who leads me in

the paths of righteousness, and I wondered if these shepherds would lay down their

lives for their sheep, as mine had done for me?

My uncle, who was sitting in the middle, said “Sheep are like a pack of

politicians. They make a lot of noise, wander all over the place, and they make about as

much sense.” He grinned wryly as he spoke, but his comment drew me out of my

reverie.

“Listen to those bells,” I said, “it sounds like music to me. What with the

bleating, bellowing, and bell ringing, I think it’s a pretty good concert.” My dad

reached for the window handle--quickly cranking it down, leaning over as he did so to

3

turn off the air conditioner. Then he said, “At last those musical muttons are behind us

and we can gain a little speed going up this hill.” “That’s a good idea,” my uncle said,

as he leaned across in front of me reaching for the window handle.

I watched his fingers curling around the knob as he firmly gripped it and then began

cranking down the window on my side. The thought crossed my mind again “how

easy that simple action appears to be for others!” So many people seem to take for

granted the simple maneuver of rolling down a window, standing up to walk across a

room, feeding themselves, picking up a book and opening its pages to read, lifting the

receiver on a telephone and hearing someone say hello, picking up a pen to write,

pulling down a window shade, or watching musicians play their instruments in a

symphony.

We felt the torrent of crisp mountain air flooding into our pickup cab. It felt

inviting and refreshing. The high mountain air seemed purer somehow and I could

smell the scent of pine and cedar mixed with the wild flowers that were scattered along

the road. As we rounded the next corner, there, just ahead of us, lay a beautiful valley

where the sunshine on the lake sparkled like diamonds on blue satin. Pleasant

memories were triggered from a half-forgotten, suddenly remembered, yesterday. My

mind slipped slowly back and found a footing in the sands of time.

I remembered two young brothers and their friends running and playing around

a similar lake while their parents were patiently fishing. When their energy was spent,

they took up their rods and cast in. Fishing is a sport that challenges the angler to

exercise patience and persistence; and, for a ten-year-old boy to be patient is perhaps an

even greater challenge. Persistence is often rewarded with accomplishment, and in this

case the pay off came quickly. The sudden tug on the line alerted the boy to action.

Excitedly, he jumped, shouting “I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” Half winding the reel and

running back on the bank, he pulled the fish from the water. The boy heard his dad’s

shout, “Wind the reel, wind the reel!” “I am,” the boy said as he looked down at the

pole in his hand. There seemed to be more fishing line on the ground than in the reel.

He was too excited to realize that he was winding the wrong way. Suddenly, it dawned

on him what he had done and he reversed the process--but too late! The fish was off the

hook, and the boy watched as the rainbow-striped trout flipped, flopped once, twice,

and was back in the water. Disappointment flooded over him. Little did he realize at

the time that this disappointing incident would soon slip into total insignificance .

I was suddenly jerked out of my reverie as I felt the pickup lurch as dad shifted

the gears and we rode slowly down the steep hill to the edge of the lake. The pickup

4

backed the boat down to the water’s edge. The brake was set and both doors opened.

“We made it,” my uncle said, as he scooted across the empty driver’s seat to follow my

dad to the back of the pickup.

As dad donned his hip-boots to wade in the water, I lifted myself across the seat

to the opened door. I heard the clink of the tailgate as it swung open and then the

scraping sound of the wheelchair and the thud as my father dropped the chair to the

ground. “Hang on, I’ll be there in a minute,” he said. My father appeared with the

wheelchair in tow as my uncle quipped, “Your chariot awaits you.” All three of us

laughed as I hoisted my legs out the open door, leaning back, grasping the back of the

seat, and thrusting forward as I did so. As my legs touched the ground, I felt firm

hands grasping my waist and, turning quickly with a swift pivot, the transfer was made

to the seat of the wheelchair.

I sat there as Dad backed up the pickup until the boat slipped into the water. My

uncle stood with his hand on my wheelchair until the truck came to a complete stop. As

the door swung open, my uncle left my side and began to busy himself helping my

father unhitch the boat from the truck.

As I sat in my chair gazing across the lake, the waters shimmered and glistened.

As I watched the gentle breeze caressing the top of the water, the waves drifted in

inviting ripples to the shore’s edge. The sound of metal against metal floated to my ears

as the two men steadily worked behind the pickup. Bolts fell away one by one. Soon,

the boat would be launched in the water and the three of us would be aboard and the

wheelchair would be left behind. For now, I sat sunning, relaxed in the early morning

light and breathing in the beauty of the lake scene.

Suddenly, my mind was again on the Twenty-third Psalm, and I thought again of

the time when the valley of the shadow of death had overwhelmed me and my family--

of the times I wanted to die and had even contemplated taking my own life. But the

Shepherd had not only led me into the valley of the shadow of death, He had led me

through to the other side. The idea came to me again: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,

instead of going through the shadows, to go around them, or over them, or not

anywhere near them?” Then, I wondered if the Lord would be limited in His power if

we avoided the valley of the shadows. Job was convinced from the Lord that “He

knoweth the way that I take; when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” (Job

23:10 KJV).

5

The Lord led Paul through his valleys, and Paul could say at the end of his life

that he had “fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” (II

Timothy 4:7 KJV). This epitaph is perhaps the most meaningful one to any dedicated

believer. I breathed a silent prayer to God for his graciousness and goodness to me. I

remembered the time when I could walk, run, jump and play like any other boy around

a lake.

I watched the pickup pull back up the hill and away from the boat. My dad and

uncle had quickly finished their task of disconnecting the boat from the trailer. The

thought flashed again through my mind: “I wish I could get up and go to help them.”

Having lived with this disability for 29 years, many adjustments have transpired.

Sometimes the question comes to mind, “Will I ever completely adjust?” Sometimes

there are days and nights when, all alone, I feel a sense of helplessness verging on the

edge of hopelessness and self-pity, because my disability is so all-inclusive. Eyes that

are partially blind, hands that fail to move and function adequately, legs that cannot

function in a normal fashion--this all being part of one body. Yes, adjustments have

been and remain monumental, sometimes on a daily basis. As I sit here speaking into

this tape recorder, I would prefer to be doing the work on a word processor. But, in

order to do that, I would need to read the print on the screen and be able to type on the

keyboard. My sight is so limited that I cannot read printed letters--no matter how large

the type-size--and the habitual spasms affecting my hands would, as they had in past

attempts, send my fingers to the wrong keys time after time.

Years ago, I spent a myriad of frustrating days and months attempting to learn to

read braille, but my spasmodic unresponsive fingers could not do the walking through

the braille pages and I couldn’t visualize myself with my nose down on the braille

pages trying to “nose the dots.” And my tongue--well, it wasn’t designed for

something like that either. We even tried the jumbo-sized-dot braille letters.

Memorizing the braille alphabet alone without the ability to touch the dots, does about

as much good as sitting down to a good dinner and just looking at the food without

being able to partake of it. In other words, one without the other, is worthless. So, with

reluctance and regret, I laid the braille literacy to rest. There was much pity at that

funeral--mainly my own self-pity!

Frustrations are a part of life, and it is a perpetual challenge to deal effectively

with them. God knows my frame--the pressure points inherent within. My strength

comes from the overwhelming comfort and security of God’s touch in those areas of my

life which would otherwise fester and bleed on those who are closest to me. God’s

6

constant, steady, loving touch brings peace, when I appropriate it, during times when

anger, frustration and pain would otherwise engulf me in a sea of self-defeat.

Even though frustrations reach out with a greedy grip to rob me of joy and

peace, the Lord is ever present and nullifies the long-term effects of frustrations which

would ultimately lead to despair. He has my best interests at heart and keeps His

promise to me. When there was evil to fear, He was with me and remained with me.

He can bring comfort when no one else can. Although the fears do not always go away,

the Lord is with me in those fears. Fears! Fears of both failure and success! Oh, how

real and vivid they can be! Most of them imagined--still, they can paralyze my life if I

focus on them rather than on His protection.

Often, fears--like faith--are the result of things not seen. There is an expression:

“Fear knocked on the door, faith answered and there was no one there.” Well, that

sounds great, unless you’re the one on the other side of the door. That is the time when

we need more than clever-sounding cliches. That is when we need a Savior.

As my uncle stood on the dock, gripping the end of the tow rope, I heard my

dad’s voice as he said, “Hang onto the rope, Gene, I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let go

or the boat will be adrift somewhere in the middle of the lake.” Since neither one of

them was able to walk on water and I was sitting there not even able to walk on land,

my dad’s comment seemed timely.

Then, I signaled to my dad before he could climb back into the pickup. Taking a

step my way and hearing what I said, he walked around me and placed himself behind

my chair. He reached out and grasped the handles of the wheelchair--pushing the back

of the chair down as the front wheels went up--he pushed the chair up the hill.

Dad was very familiar with my chair, as are others who have been around me for

a time, and they are able to handle my chair with ease. Gravel, soft dirt and sand, and

even some rough sidewalks tend to trap a wheelchair if the chair is not tilted back.

A worse situation than being stuck is to be thrown out of the chair. The sudden

exhilaration which comes when the chair stops and I don’t is a thrill that I can do

without. I recall one occasion when this happened. I had donned a suit and tie and felt

very dignified on my way to attend a formal occasion with my mom and a friend.

There I sat in my chair, appearing--for all practical purposes-- important. We were a

little late and in a hurry as mom walked briskly behind my chair on one side and our

7

friend on the other side, both pushing together. They were busy talking and, as they

approached the sidewalk at the edge of that plush lawn, their attention was elsewhere.

The wheels edged closer to the grass. The rate of speed seemed to increase and, well, I

think you are beginning to get the picture of what is about to take place! When the

wheels hit the edge of the lawn, the chair stopped suddenly and I didn’t. The law of

gravity knows no favorites, even to one dressed as well as I. My dapper appearance did

me little good as I suddenly became airborne. My acrobatic skills being virtually nil, the

somersault did not appear to be all that graceful. Instead of landing lightly, I hit the

grass with a dull thud and rolled once or twice. My once dignified appearance was no

more. The soft grass cushioned me and I was not injured--other than my pride which

probably needed to be trimmed anyway.

My dad pushed me up the narrow incline toward the pickup and opened the

door. Leaning down behind the seat, he extracted my portable urinal. Over the years,

we had learned that public bathrooms were not always handicapped accessible. The

times we have tried to negotiate these narrow, confining bathroom doors are too

numerous to mention. I am so thankful to the Lord for His many provisions. More

recently, public awareness has been raised regarding the needs of the physically

challenged.

As my dad handed me the portable urinal, which has become one of my biggest

blessings over the years, I was reminded of the friends I have known who were

quadriplegic and paraplegic and unable to use a bathroom without catheter and leg

bags. These aids for the disabled have improved over the years and have become a

tremendous boon. Without them, these individuals would be unable to live a functional

life. The development of electric wheelchairs, ramps, and lifts have made a tremendous

difference in the quality of life.

As I sat there busying myself with the task at hand, I breathed an attitude of

thanks for the convenience that is mine. Before the blessing of the spill-proof urinal,

accidents were not an uncommon occurrence.

Even my wheelchair is a source of convenience and blessing for without it I

would be immobile outside my home. I thank God for wheelchairs, I thank God for

urinals, and I thank God for the privilege of going to the lake. These may seem small

and insignificant to some, but to others even a breath of air outside of an iron lung

would be a great treasure.

8

I must be honest, though. I’m not always thankful when my pants are wet, or

when I spill food that the Lord has provided so graciously for me. That attitude of

unthankfulness and resentment is not from the Lord, for He wants us to be thankful in

all things.

On that mountain top, as I scanned the lake, I could dimly visualize other people

by the shore. Two men were in the process of launching their boat next to ours as my

dad pushed my wheelchair toward the dock. Their friendly greeting rang out, “How

are you doing this morning? Do you need any help with that chair?” “I think we can

manage. Thanks, anyway,” my dad replied. “Thanks, anyway,” I said. It is an ever

present fascination to me to note how some people react to those with disabilities. Some

seem to express more willingness to help than others, and some just look the other way,

while others appear condescending.

All these reactions are contingent upon many things. Often, I have seen

individuals who were disabled assume a defiant posture – building barriers of

protection against anyone’s intrusion into their lives. Perhaps this is the result of their

inner sense of inadequacy or lack of adjustment, or it could be a number of other

reasons. Nevertheless, those people lose more than friendship. When someone is

trying to be helpful or friendly and they are rebuffed, that in turn causes them to be

cautious in offering their friendship to any person in other situations at another time. I

am always mindful of this and strive with the help of the Lord to practice that principle.

There is no excuse for a chair-bound or any other disabled person not to be

gracious-- particularly if they are believers. Independence is an important element in

life. ‘I would rather do it myself’ is a phrase that seems to be inherent in all of us. My

needs are so great that I require a lot of help from others. That is why I feel it is crucial

to be courteous when I decline offers of help that I do not need for there will be times

when I do need help.

Children are uninhibited when approaching me. Their spontaneity and curiosity

is totally refreshing. Children in the supermarket or on the street, held in tow by a

parent, will cry out, “Mommy, there is a man in a wheelchair.” The parent will react in

one of two ways. They will grab the child, spin him around, their whisper heard across

a noisy crowded room, “Don’t say that,” or “Don’t stare,” or “Be quiet, he might hear

you.” If I am able to express anything to the parent, I do say something to the effect,

“It’s all right, I don’t mind,” but by then the barrier has been erected. On the other

hand, some parents respond with openness and allow their child to be spontaneous.

9

On this day, we needed no help loading our fishing gear into the boat for we had

the system down to a science. The wheelchair was parked on the dock next to the boat--

brakes set. “Okay,” I said, are you ready for this transaction?” “We’d better be,” my

uncle retorted, “because I’m ready to get on the lake and do some serious fishing.” One

hand went under my armpit and another under my leg on either side, “One, two, three,

lift.” Muscles tensed, my body raised, pivoted, and swung onto the boat seat. As I sank

back into the soft cushioned seat, my legs stretched out before me, I basked in the warm

inviting sunshine filtering down from above.

Thinking about the day ahead, I latched onto a sudden sense of tranquility. My

thoughts began to weave through a picturesque tapestry of sunshine and glistening

water. How good it felt to be there on the lake that day! The boat slowed to a trolling

pace and I looked again at the disappearing shoreline. The white fluffy clouds

suspended in space overhead added to my sense of euphoria.

I watched my dad as he opened his tackle box and selected and rejected various

fishing lures. “This ought to bring in the big ones,” he said, as he picked up my fishing

pole and attached the glistening gold and silver lure. Then, he slid the fishing pole over

the edge of the boat. The line began to reel out and the lure disappeared beneath the

waters. The reel snapped shut as dad handed me the pole with an encouraging “Now,

get ‘em!” I leaned back on the cushion in the boat, resting part of my weight on my left

elbow. My left arm hung paralyzed, limp at my side. I made sure it was propped

against the cushion for support. Grasping the fishing pole with my right hand, I

steadied against the side of the boat. Glancing down at my right hand which gripped

the pole firmly, I observed how the firm muscular structure of the back of my right

hand was in marked contrast to my left hand which had atrophied after being

paralyzed by polio.

Polio. Polio. A word virtually eliminated from our present-day vocabulary;

thanks to the discovery of the polio vaccine. In the spring of 1952, however, the Salk

vaccine had not yet been developed. Even though I was only four years old, I can still

recall my feelings of panic as I was awakened in the middle of the night, gripped in

hysteria because the weight on my chest was so oppressive that I couldn’t breathe!

Finally, the fear subsided and dissolved away into the night like boiling water in a hot

pan, leaving behind only a hint of the vapor.

The hurried trip to the hospital–the doctor’s reassuring words “Influenza, it will

pass and he’ll be all right,” brought a false sense of comfort to my parents early the next

10

morning. Polio had not yet gripped this country in its vice, but was just beginning to be

felt in other parts of the world. That summer brought on the epidemic which led to

Doctor Salk’s discovery of the miraculous polio vaccine. But, by that time, polio had

already done its work on me and I was left holding one useless left arm. Little did

anyone know then that events yet to come would make my bout with polio pale by

comparison!

Sometime later, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the violent tugging of the pole

in my hand. I jerked and shouted, “I’ve got one!” All hands on deck went into action.

“Hang onto him,” my dad shouted. “I’m trying,” I said as he leaped to his feet and

lunged toward me. Wrenching the pole from my hand, dad unlocked the reel and

began to roll it in. The trout leaped again and the waters splashed and glistened as the

trout’s silver, red and green rainbow-striped sides caught the sun. As it came closer

and closer, my dad scooped up the fish in the net as I felt the spray of water from its

fins. “We did it,” I said, “It’s a big one, too–what would you say, about ten pounds?”

“Not exactly,” my dad said, “more like two.” “Give me a break,” I joked, and he

laughed. “Can you see that fish, Ed?” my uncle asked. “Can you see that fish?” was

more than an idle question. As my dad held the fish close to my face, I could smell the

aquatic aroma of the trout. My comment to my uncle, “I may be blind, but I’m not that

blind!” drew a chuckle from both of them.

There was a time when I could not laugh and joke about my disability. The time

of acceptance and adjustment did not come overnight nor did it come in a month or a

year. To a certain degree, my adjustments--like everyone else--are ongoing. Each day

dawns anew, bringing with it different decisions, challenges, joys and problems. But,

on this day it felt good to laugh for I was comfortable with myself. There was an earlier

time when I did not feel comfortable with myself or anyone else. It was not until I

realized the fullness of God’s love, and the depth of His grace and mercy that I came to

the point of acceptance and realized that broken dreams build better realities if we give

Him the tools.

I will never fully know the depths of God’s love, mercy and grace until I can see

him face-to-face. (Romans 11:33) I will see him then in the fullness of His marvelous

majesty, and there will be no limitations to my vision when I stand before Him. And, I

will stand before Him!

The morning grew towards noon and thoughts of feeding the fish turned to

thoughts of feeding ourselves. “Break out the lunch box,” I said, “those fish have had

11

more to eat than I have.” “Sounds like a winner,” the two men chortled as they brought

out the sandwiches and soft drinks. As dad brought my sandwich back to where I sat,

opening the wrapper, he sat down and began to feed me. As I held the cup which

contained the refreshing drink, I raised the cup to my lips. Suddenly, my hand jerked,

spilling the drink. Spasms, like uninvited guests, always come at the most inconvenient

times and one never completely adapts to either of them, I thought, as the liquid ran

down my wrist onto my shirt sleeve. The spasms were no stranger to me or my family.

Although I don’t understand them, I’ve learned to live with them. Laughter is

sometimes like a medicine, and so my casual, offhand remark “I’m being a jerk again!”

came as a welcome relief to an awkward moment.

As the afternoon sun lengthened and began to wane, we returned to the dock

where we had launched the boat early that morning. As the boat slowed sluggishly, the

motor cut, sputtered and died before entering the shallow waters. On its own

momentum, the boat slipped smoothly through the waters as it neared the dock. With a

sudden jolt, we knew that we had touched bottom. Dad swiftly donned his hip boots

which had remained on the floor of the boat during the day and he nimbly leaped over

the side into the water, splashing along as he pulled the boat to shore. “You hold the

boat, and I’ll go get the pickup,” dad said. We watched as he backed the pickup down

toward the lake’s edge. As it parked, the door swung open and dad jumped out,

grabbed my wheelchair, and brought it to the edge of the dock with a synchronization

borne of experience.

With the boat secured and held fast at the dock, the unloading plan was put into

operation. The two men stepped into the boat. “Are the brakes set on my chair?” I

asked. “Yes,” came the dual reply. The two men reached, one on either side of me;

their hands gripped underneath my arms and legs. One, two, three--always lift on

three. I was in my chair sitting on the dock. I reached and hit the brake on the right

side of my chair, unlocking it. Then, leaning over the left side, I strained to grasp the

extended brake handle on the left. Extended because my left arm remained limp and

useless. My right arm reaching across the chair had become almost second nature to

me.

Special devices such as extended wheel chair brake handles, specially designed

plates with food scoops, spoons with expanded handles, adaptive clothing with velcro

instead of button holes, extended zipper tabs--all these adaptive items seem so simple

yet are so significant to the disabled. They enhance the independence for those of us

who are challenged with severe blessings. Yes, blessings! The Lord gives gifts and

12

distributes them to whom He will. Some are chosen to teach while others are chosen to

be taught. Some are chosen to lead while others follow. Some of us are chosen to learn

in the fiery flames of pain and to witness for Christ in that adversity. We must

remember that point of view.

The sun descended lower in the west, the trees by the roadside held out branches

of beauty with the green leaves swaying gently in the cool evening breeze. As the

pickup rolled toward the sunset, the evening shadows lengthened across the landscape

and just then--suddenly--two deer sprang out in front of the pickup! “Look, deer!” my

uncle exclaimed as dad hit the brakes. The deer stood regally by the side of the road,

their antlers pointed up toward the evening sky. Their feet spread wide apart as

though bracing themselves for what might come. They had nothing to fear from us as

we gazed in awe at their brown velvet hide glistening in the setting sun. A stirring

sight, to say the least! In the mountain valleys, deer are not an uncommon sight, but it

is always stirring to see the marvelous creation that are these majestic animals.

Then, the rolling pastures began to darken into night. The day was all but over

as the miles stretched one by one behind us and brought us closer to home.

I thought back on the day on the lake. It had been such a pleasant place to be

and all had seemed so well. Suddenly, other times came to mind when it had not been

so pleasant--the days when there was no hope of my ever being on a lake again--no

hope of even being alive. A time when circumstances seemed out of control as they

were on that mid-spring morning in April of 1958. The chain of events on that day

would forever change my life.

13

Chapter 2

The Fall and the Fracture

On that April morning in 1958, the morning sun rose sending thin streaks of gray, edges

of silver, and orange whisks of light to cut through the early morning darkness. The

quiet spring morning was suddenly shattered by the reveling ruckus of our twin

roosters from their post near our barn. As their colorful chorus brought me out of my

sleep, a voice from out of the past floated into my consciousness. My grandfather was

saying “Those roosters are so vain and cocky! They think they are the ones causing the

sun to rise because when they crow the sun always rises!” This memory of my

grandfather’s dry wit brought a smile to my lips as I yawned and stretched.

My brother Ellis, two years my senior, turned over in the bed next to mine and

punched my ribs playfully. “Wake up, sleepy head.” “I am awake,” I retorted as I hit

him back with my half-doubled fist. “Ouch,” his pinch located my back. Springing out

of bed, I said “I’ll get you for that!” Then, jumping into my clothes and racing him to

the bathroom, we started the day much like any other day.

It was a weekend day--no school. “Yippee,” I thought, then remembered it was

Sunday! “Oh, no, there is school today–Sunday School!” I knew I couldn’t fake being

sick, so I began to scheme ways to dupe my mom and dad to get out of going. Standing

before the sink, I looked at my hands. “They aren’t that dirty,” I decided. “But, I guess

I’d better wash them anyway, just in case mom checks.” As I flipped on the faucet, I

sensed rather than heard someone behind me. I knew it had to be Ellis. Remembering

that I owed him a retaliation, I quickly put my hand under the faucet and gripped it

while stepping sideways. A stream of water shot from the faucet as a yelp of surprise

came from my brother! An ominous voice came from the kitchen, “All right, you two, I

don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is you’d better quit horsing around and

get ready for breakfast!” “Okay,” we replied sweetly, in unison, as I escaped past him

while he busied himself at the sink, ducking a mock swing from his soapy hand.

As I entered the kitchen, I saw my dad sipping his first cup of morning coffee

while talking to my mother who was attending to business at the stove. I looked at the

two of them. My dad was tall and strong and had huge hands that were as calloused

and weathered as his face. Evidence of long hours working outdoors on our farm. I

hoped I would look like dad when I grew up.

14

My mom was prettier than anybody, I thought, as she turned to me and opened

her arms wide, inviting me to come for a good morning hug. As I snuggled in, she said

“You boys need to straighten up. Ellis is the only brother you have, you need to be nice

to him.” I felt the warmth of her at-home hug and knew I was loved!

As my brother entered the room, my dad said, “Yeah, you guys need to start

getting along better.” Mom, embracing me on one side, reached out to include him as

well. “My turn,” dad said, as he walked toward us with his arms opened wide.

Being ten and twelve years old, my brother and I felt that we were on the verge

of outgrowing displays of parental affection. We cringed in public when Mom stooped

to kiss us or my dad offered an open display of affection. Both of us wanted and

rejected that at the same time. We felt it was beneath our pre-adolescent dignity. We

were much more willing to receive hugs from them in the privacy of that Sunday-

morning kitchen. Although we would never openly admit it, we reveled in their

relationship with us. We took it for granted that it was part of being their children, even

though we could never put those feelings into words. Little did we realize then how

extremely fortunate we were to be embraced in a loving home! Our parents’ love and

strength would serve us in good stead for the tragedies which loomed on the horizon.

Coming back to their current conversation, I heard my dad say “I need to check

the irrigation pipe after breakfast. It could be mud or it could be another skunk

plugging the pipe. When you bring the boys back from church, maybe we can pack a

lunch and go on a trip to the hills. But, hurry boys, you’ve got to get moving or you’ll

be late.” I watched my dad drain his last drop of coffee as he scooted back from the

table and rose to help mom clear the dishes away. He gave her a bear hug and a kiss--

thanks for the breakfast. My brother and I had grown accustomed to their displays of

affection. In some indefinable way, we knew that our parents loved each other and that

each of them, in turn, loved us.

To give a child love is perhaps the greatest inheritance any parent can give a

child. In a home where a child is disabled, a special strain is placed on family

relationships. Although my polio disability was barely perceptible at that time, it had

created a great deal of tension earlier and disrupted the family unit and the

cohesiveness of our home. My disability was an integral part of our lives. The medical

expense as well as the time involved in my recovery after the onset of polio when I was

four years old had been traumatic for all of my family. Throughout that struggle, they

taught me to view my disability as a difference and not as a disaster.

15

The Lord was in the background of our childhood imaginations and plans as we

grew up on the farm; and Sunday School was a part of our lives. On that day, as we

bailed out of the car in front of our small church located on that country corner it was

like any other Sunday routine. Sunday morning, Sunday School, and after that came

the church service. When it was all over, I knew that both of us would dash through the

church door out onto the steps, taking them two at hurry to leap into the car--so anxious

to get back home!

So, on this particular Sunday morning I sat--as I always did--in the back of the

classroom with two or three of my Sunday School cronies. These same characters were

also my buddies at school during the week. Suddenly, midway through the Sunday

School lesson, a tiny spit-ball missile appeared in flight from the back of the room and

flew straight to the ear of Priscilla Mitchell sitting in the front row! As she grabbed her

ear, she wailed loudly in what seemed to me to be greatly exaggerated pain. “Eddie

Harris,” Mrs. Walls commanded, “come up here and sit next to me, right now!” Slowly,

I stood up and cast a daggered glance at my buddies who were trying to stifle their

delight. I wondered why she picked on me? Any one of the others could have done it

too! It seemed like a long way to the front of the room and the smirk on Priscilla’s face

did not go unnoticed as I passed her chair along the way.

I knew I was going to get it, but I just didn’t know what “it” was going to be.

She pointed to the chair next to hers and then turned her attention back to the class.

As I sat, I began to bemoan my fate. The time stretched out endlessly until, at last, the

bell shrilled overhead. I didn’t know whether to stand and shuffle out with the rest of

the class or sit passively. Suddenly, Mrs. Walls turned to me and said, “Have a good

day, Eddie,” as she rose to leave. I just looked at her as I sat there, and said “Do you

mean I can go?” “Yes,” she said, “but remember, Eddie, that this is the house of the

Lord so think about how He wants you to behave in His house.” I mumbled something

about, “Good, I guess,” as I started to slink past her to leave the room. “Wait, Eddie,

let’s pray together,” she said, as she laid her hand on my shoulder and bowed with me

for prayer. The amen put a period on the prayer and I dashed to the stairs, already late

for the church service.

I walked rapidly down the center aisle among the worshipers who were standing

because the opening song had already begun. I finally reached the seat in the back of

the room where I usually sat. I never could bring myself to sit at the front of the church.

I could have if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to and no one made me. I guess they felt it

was enough for me to be there; no need to press the point. The Doxology had ended

16

and the pastor stepped forward and began to pray. I listened as the pastor invoked the

blessing on the service, the sick, and the indifferent. Then, he went on to include the

county, the city, the state, the nation--eventually his prayer touched the whole world. I

began to grow restless. I turned to my brother beside me, but he seemed more into

devotion than I was at that point so, for some reason, I didn’t bother him. I looked

around the room aimlessly, and then the prayer ended and song books were opened

again. Holding a hymn book in my hand, I half-heartedly sang, reading the words as I

did so. The music was not the best played nor the best sung, but the intent was sincere.

Our church was small and did not have professional musicians, so our church piano

was usually played by someone who was almost a half-good musician, and occasionally

they would hit a note that would sound as if it was on key! I knew that scripture told

us to make a joyful noise unto the Lord; but I couldn’t understand how God might

consider this cacophony to be joyful!

Standing there, holding the hymn book as if it would bite me, I thought about the

time three years ago, in this same church, when I put my trust in Jesus as someone they

call “Savior.” I wasn’t certain what that meant, except the alternative meant hell and I

knew that wasn’t for me. I knew that heaven had been described as a good place to be.

I had heard about it from the pulpit and my Sunday School teacher had talked about it.

My mom and dad had talked about it. Heaven was a good place where there is no pain,

no problems, no fears, and no spoiled plans. So, I simply gave my heart to the Lord

and trusted that He would see to the rest of it.

The singing ended and the sermon began. Absent-mindedly, I picked up my

Bible and opened it--I always liked to read the words in red. Finally, the words of the

pastor filtered into my ears as he gave the closing prayer. I closed the Book on my lap

and stood to my feet as he finished the benediction. Turning, hurrying into the narrow

aisle, I watched the crowd as they rose to leave the sanctuary. Then, a hand reached out

and touched my shoulder! I looked up into the eyes of Mrs. Walls. Her words stunned

me, “I will be praying for you this week, Eddie!” I gulped a muttered “goodbye” and

then lunged for the door.

Outside, the day had taken on a brilliant sun-drenched hue. I jostled with a

couple of my buddies in fun and then looked up to see the friendly smile of Grandpa

Wilson. “If you boys will behave yourselves, I’ll give you some candy,” as he reached

into his pocket and pulled out a package of Lifesavers. The weekly treat always helped

to offset the otherwise difficult Sunday mornings. Difficult only because I made them

difficult with a bad attitude toward the Sunday morning services. The reward from Mr.

17

Wilson’s hand was accepted with a quick “thank you” as I made a half-turn and a

sudden dash toward the open door of our car. Sliding into the seat and shutting the

door, we were homeward bound at last!

Being home was always more important to me than being in Sunday School-- a

thing which I perceived had to be endured. Admittedly, there were times when the

lessons seemed exciting to my ten-year-old mind set-- the stories about David and

Goliath, or Sampson and his cartoon-like antics. I would look through the Bible, seeing

the pictures of little David and the giant Goliath, and David’s slingshot (which I

imagined was somewhat similar to my own). The tin cans in our trash barrel took on a

new meaning as I positioned them with slingshot in hand, backing away ten or twenty

paces. Then, taking up a rock, positioning it into the slingshot and drawing it back, I

would take careful aim and zing! The rock would sail through the air to its certain

target. The can would clunk to the ground and Goliath would be downed one more

time. Then, it was Moses and Joshua crossing the Red Sea on dry ground. I enjoyed the

part about the Red Sea closing on the Egyptians. Other than that, Sunday School held

not much interest for me. But, the lessons sank into both my conscious and

subconscious; and the lessons, like seeds, were planted in the fertile soil of my mind.

When seeds are planted, some live and take root and grow, while others fall by the

wayside. Jesus taught this in His parable of the sower. (Mark 4:1-20)

I remember times when my brother and I would walk behind our dad as we

watched him scatter seed from side-to-side. I can still recall the clean musty smell of the

newly plowed sod as my feet sank into the soft dirt. Occasionally, I would stomp on a

clod and watch it crumple into dust. The seed scattering was called “broadcasting,”

dad explained, and he went on to tell us that he couldn’t do this on just any ground

because the soil had to prepared, watered, and cultivated. And, it had to be done at a

certain time or else there wouldn’t be a crop. I was aware of the importance of the seed

being planted in the soil of the ground, having lived on the farm all of my young life. I

didn’t realize then the importance of the spiritual seed of truth being planted in the soil

of my mind.

I am so thankful to the Lord for those early Sunday School seeds planted in my

youth--even though much of the time I considered it to be uninteresting and lack-luster.

Yet, the Word went forth and God promised that “His Word will not return void.”

(Isaiah 55:11) Some of those planted seeds did take root, and some lay dormant for

many and many a year. I’m sure that some of those seeds are laying dormant even

today.

18

Now, on this Sunday especially, I couldn’t wait to get home because I had plans

for the afternoon to meet some of my friends in their back yard. A picnic was planned,

and I was looking forward to the rest of the day. “The worst is over,” I thought, as I

reached out and jerked open the car door and went running into the house to change

my clothes.

Later that afternoon--which had gone by much too fast as far as I was concerned-

-I noticed the long shadows that were being cast by the tree we had been playing in and

knew it was a signal that the day was drawing to an end. “One last time,” someone

said, “who can jump the farthest out of the tree?” I said, “I can!” “No, you can’t--not

from the top! Dare you! Double dare you!” someone challenged. That was all I needed

to hear. I couldn’t back down now. No one could--unless he wanted to be called

chicken! No one, especially me, wanted to have that label!

As I grabbed the tree, I felt the bark scrape my skin on my upward scramble. I

could feel the pressure of my knees as they pressed in tight against the trunk. At last, I

reached the top. I looked down on my buddies below and gloated “I told you I could

do it!” Their enthusiasm for my accomplishment was somewhat stifled because they

had lost their bet, so they tried another tactic--“Yeah, but you can’t jump from that high

up!” The ground looked a long way down from my lofty perch, and I knew they were

right. So, I said “I can, but I don’t want to.” It seemed that was usually the only thing I

could think of to say when I was afraid to do something. I tried to conceal my

nervousness with an air of bravado as I began to climb down. Careful, I told myself,

remembering how difficult it had been on the way up. Suddenly, my foot slipped, and

my hand reached out to grab a limb but it broke off! Then, I was falling . . .!!! Crashing

down through limbs, leaves, and bark, my friends laughed as they watched. They

thought I was pretending! “This isn’t funny,” I thought, as I desperately tried to reach

out for anything--anything-- to hold on to!

Their laughter suddenly died as they realized I had wasn’t fooling but had lost

control. The ground rose higher and higher as I fell faster and faster. Then, the sudden,

body-wrenching thud as I landed on my left side knocked the breath out of me. The

shooting pain gripping my left arm like a steel vice was unbearable! The crack I had

heard as I had hit the ground echoed over and over in my mind like a gun shot from the

bottom of a canyon.

The emergency room door of the hospital loomed in the distance as I walked,

trembling, between my parents with my brother Ellis right behind us. Panic and pain

19

overwhelmed me as we walked down the long sidewalk toward the entrance. The

frantic trip had been excruciating. Every bump and jolt sent oceans of pain washing

over me. I did not want to be here walking into the hospital! I had been here before.

This place held bad memories for me--memories of ether and alcohol, memories of

suffocating gasps for air, memories of home sickness, and polio! As if all that wasn’t

bad enough, just the sight of the hospital brought sadness to me because Raymond, one

of my best friends, had died here! And the emergency room sign conjured up

sickening memories of the rescue squad which had rushed to my neighborhood because

of my other friend Smitty’s accident the year before. . .

24

Chapter 3

The Shadows of Death

The experiences of death and loss came to me so early in life that I think it

forever changed how I perceive them. To this day, any mention of hospitals, accidents,

or a funeral will dreg up images in my mind of my friends Raymond and Smitty. We

were only ten years old.

Raymond

Raymond had been my best friend since the second grade. We did everything

together, but playing baseball was our favorite pastime. It was during one of our

regular baseball games that we first became aware that something was wrong with

Raymond. He was in the batter’s box gripping the bat with a firm hold, his stance wide,

waiting for the pitch. He waited as the pitcher wound up and released the ball, then

swung with all his might. I heard the satisfying crack as he connected and then dropped

the bat and ran toward first base. He didn’t stop there, but went on to second and then

to third. Another runner came in and tied the score, and so I yelled “go on, go home, go

home, you can win it!” His legs pumped like pistons as he ran and made a perfect slide

into home. The umpire shouted “safe!” and we won the game!

But Raymond lay there on the ground, struggling to sit up. As he brought

himself to his feet, I saw him wince and crumple again. Our team started to pick him

up and carry him off the field, but we saw his face twisted with pain. “Are you okay,

Raymond?” Trying to maintain a facade of toughness, he said “I don’t feel so good, but

I think I’m okay.” The next day, his leg was so swollen and feverish, that his folks took

him to the doctor. They gave him some medicine, but the pain continued and as the

days passed, his limp became more pronounced. As he went back and forth to the

doctor for more tests and more medication, we all began to sense that what was wrong

with Raymond was more than a bruised knee. After many weeks, the results of all the

tests were known. His folks told my mom and dad that they had received the worst

news a parent can hear –

Raymond had leukemia!

25

I had never heard that word before, and at first I thought it sounded like

something they made aluminum cans from. Then, my folks explained to me that it was

a very serious disease and that Raymond probably would not ever be well again.

His condition steadily worsened. Initially, it appeared that as treatment and

prayers increased his condition improved. I vividly recall one day when I saw him

hobbling down the hallway at school struggling with crutches. The crutches seemed

too long for him. It hurt all of us to watch him struggle, but he didn’t want anyone to

try to help him--he was too proud to want help. Then, the bleeding returned and his

condition worsened again. One day he would be able to run. The next day he would be

on crutches. He fluctuated from transfusions, from walking to running, from running

to crutches. The roller coaster seemed endless. Before long, the ride to the bottom

didn’t come back up. Raymond just got weaker and weaker and there was nothing

anyone could do.

I remember the day of his funeral as if it were yesterday. I remember walking

into the sanctuary not knowing what to expect because I had never been to a funeral

before. The people had gathered inside under a quiet hush and there was soft music

playing. I felt uncomfortable in my suit as I sat next to my mom and dad and Ellis.

Pastor Shinkey rose to pray–everyone appeared very solemn as I looked around the

room. He said something about living and dying and living again, but I really didn’t

hear the words as I kept trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. As the sermon

ended, everyone stood up. I felt awkward as I rose to my feet and walked behind the

others toward the front of the church. One by one . . . next, it was my turn . . .

As I stood in front of the casket which held my friend Raymond, I felt my

stomach and my throat tighten all at once. I looked down and saw that he was dressed

in his blue Cub Scouts’ uniform with his yellow scarf tied just right, and remembered

that the badges on his shirt were all the same as mine because we had worked on them

together. He just looked out of place because I had seen him before in the same uniform

full of life and running over. Lying there now in his blue uniform with his Cub Scout

cap on his head--that still lifeless body-- with his face a rare color, or I should say

colorless, it just didn’t seem like Raymond to me. I could not stop the hot stinging tears

which ran down my face. I didn’t want to cry in front of all the people, but I couldn’t

help myself.

Raymond had been my best friend. I knew I would never forget him. The

pastor’s words echoed in my mind as I walked out of the church: “Raymond is not

26

dead, his spirit will live forever with Jesus. Raymond is not dead, only his body has

been changed.” I knew it was probably all true, but right then, I couldn’t think of

anything except that Raymond just looked dead to me.

Smitty

Scott Smith was known by all of us as “Smitty.” He, like the rest of us in the

neighborhood, liked to dig caves and then crawl in and hide from the rest of the world.

We all took turns hiding in them on one occasion or another. The afternoon shadows

had not lengthened into evening on that day I remember so vividly as Smitty called out

to me and Ellis and another friend, “Hey, you guys, here is a good place to dig. We can

get way back in there and have a real good cave. Come on, Ed, and you other guys, too,

the four of us could dig this real big in no time!” “Aw, now, Smitty, you know how

dangerous that is. Our folks told us not to dig in these banks, and, besides, its too soft

right now because of the rain this morning--it’s liable to cave in on us.” Smitty was

always the most impulsive of all of us, and liked to do things he wasn’t supposed to do.

Now was no exception. He started yelling at us that he was going to dig it himself and

that we could all go home to our “mommies” if we were that scared. No amount of

reasoning could persuade him to forget the idea and he refused to leave with us to go

home.

We left him there by the river and started home. We hesitated for a minute on

the river’s bank, my brother Ellis, Ronnie, and I, looking down at the river as the bluish-

brown waves undulated in the shadows of the cliffs. We looked back at Smitty and

then looked up at the cliffs above us before going on. We were all feeling a little

ashamed at being afraid to help him dig the cave, and a little guilty walking off and

leaving him.

Just as we were getting ready to eat supper, we heard the sound of sirens coming

up the road toward our house, and then fading slightly as they turned off before

reaching us. A neighbor’s Jeep screeched to a stop in front of our house and my dad

jumped up from the table and ran out to meet it. We ran outside to see what was

happening just as we saw dad jump into the Jeep and carrying his shovels. He leaned

out the window and shouted at us, “No, you boys stay here!” Our protests fell on

empty air as the wheels of the Jeep spit gravel as it left our driveway. Ellis and I both

ran after it--oblivious to our mother’s shouts behind us. We didn’t say a word to each

other as we ran after the Jeep headed down toward the river, but both of us were sick

with apprehension.

27

My knees trembled and the ground beneath my feet seemed to sway as I saw my

friend’s legs sticking out from a huge mound of freshly fallen dirt. We watched my dad

and our neighbor and Smitty’s dad all frantically shoveling dirt and clawing their way

into the mound. I had never seen a grown man lose his composure before that day, and

I felt overwhelming sadness as I watched Smitty’s dad fall to the ground in grief over

his dead son. Smitty’s mom tried to console him, but she looked as though she had to

struggle just to keep from passing out.

I learned a bitter lesson that day about the paradoxes and bitter ironies of life--

that something good can turn into something tragic at the same time.

28

Chapter 4

The Valley

Ever since I was four years old, I have dreaded hospitals. They represent a place

of foreboding and darkness to me. My first hospital encounter was at that time--when

polio had gripped my left arm and rendered it useless. The first symptom of the onset

of the virus shook me awake in the middle of the night. I couldn’t breathe! I couldn’t

move! I struggled to sit up, but no movement came. In terror, I cried out in a weak, tiny

voice. In a matter of seconds, my mother was there beside my bed. I don’t know how it

happens, but a mother can hear the cry of an infant and discern that it her child,

whether it is in a crowded airport or a small church nursery. Apparently, there is a

sixth sense to a mother’s mind. When she came to my bedside, her presence was

reassuring, but the feeling of panic would not leave. The long night passed and the

morning light broke upon us. The decision had been made to call our doctor as soon as

his office opened for the day.

The doctor who had delivered me into the world four years earlier appeared

worried as he glared down at me through his wire-rimmed spectacles as his bald pate

glistened beneath the overhead light. “Influenza,” he told my worried parents, “but I

would like to run more tests in the hospital just to be sure.” His decision to run these

precautionary tests were based on the fact that the word polio had been rising to an

ever-increasing crescendo that spring of 1952. Then, the word epidemic was being

shouted! The tests revealed that I did not have influenza, but a confirmed case of polio.

My left arm felt numb, and hung limply at my side when I walked, ran, or sat. The

doctor went on to explain to my parents, “Surgery, we think, can help Ed regain some

use in his left arm, but it will take some time for him to recover before we can consider

that option.”

Two years later, when I was six years old, the first surgery was performed. A

second surgery followed when I was eight, restoring most of the use to my once

helpless arm. Miracles do occur, although sometimes they are only seen in retrospect.

After the second surgery, I felt a gradual increase in the use and strength of my left arm.

By the age of ten, I was finally able to do all the rambunctious things that any boy of

that age can do with two strong arms--including, unfortunately for me, the ability to

climb very tall trees!

29

Now, here I lay--again in the hospital--on the x-ray table wincing in pain as the

technician repositioned the arm I had landed on when I fell out of the tree--my left one.

I felt defenseless in the hospital gown which barely covered me. I head a voice say,

“Take a deep breath. Hold.” The sudden whirring of the x-ray machine clicked. The

voice echoed again, “Okay, you can breathe now,” as someone in a white jacket walked

around me, reaching down to pull out the film plate. “Just a couple more pictures, and

we’ll be done,” she was saying. She must have sensed my anxiety for she said,

soothingly, “Just relax. I know you must be hurting.” She patted my right arm gently

as she walked by the table.

I wanted to think of something else besides the pain in my arm as I waited for the

rest of the x-rays, so I decided to try to think of the most beautiful place in the world

that I knew about. Without hesitation, images began to form of peach trees in bloom

and springtime on our farm. I could feel the crisp evening air as twilight beckoned from

the distant mountain peaks. I was running swiftly, almost out of breath, trying to catch

up with my brother who could run faster than anyone I knew. “Wait for me, Ellis!” He

and I were virtually inseparable, and in the outdoor sunlight we usually cast only one

wide shadow because we were always so close together.

We were racing across our farm--the farm that stretched out for 20 acres along

the colorful Colorado River. My parents had worked on our farm tirelessly in order to

bring it into full production. As a family, we had worked together, over the few short

years of my life, to plant peach, apple, and cherry trees in row after row of brilliant

splendor. Now, the early spring blossoms of the fruit trees were just beginning to come

forth in an explosion of colors. The pink and white and rosy-colored blossoms

decorated the orchard everywhere I looked.

I could smell the fragrance of the blossoms as I passed beneath each tree. The

cool evening breeze felt good as I inhaled the crisp clean air. My breath came faster as I

labored to keep up with my brother’s pace. I could see the green, peaked roof of our

farm house in the distance ahead. Our parents had bought the farm eight years earlier,

and we had lived there, working and building the farm into a beautiful place we called

home.

I worked alongside my brother and parents doing chores as any farm boy did--

slopping the hogs, milking the cows, feeding the chickens, and gathering eggs. Milking

the cows was somewhat difficult for me to do because of the limited use of my left

hand, but I learned to do it. “Watch this, boys,” dad would say, as he stooped to hobble

30

our cow Bessie’s feet, and then pulled up a stool beside her with a milk pail in his hand.

He grasped the cow’s udder and, swiftly picking it up, he pointed the end toward our

cat in the corner of the barn. He gave the udder a quick jerk and squeezed milk from

the cow. The white warm milk shot swiftly across the barn as our cat opened her

mouth to receive it. My brother and I tried repeatedly to duplicate this feat, but we

could never do it quite as well as dad. We did, however, almost master the technique

of swinging a full pail of milk around in a swift circle over our heads without losing any

milk--well, losing very little milk-- from the pail. “Centrifugal force,” our dad called it.

If you slowed down the speed of your swinging arm, then the force reversed itself and

warm milk would come spilling out onto your head. This happened to me all too often

as I practiced. If dad ever wondered why our cow gave a lot of milk one day, and

hardly any the next, he never mentioned it.

As the fruit trees we had planted came into full production, the orchard

blossomed in more ways than one. In the early spring, peach, apricot, cherry, apple,

plum, and prune blossoms would burst forth. Their arrival was heralded by the many

fragrances that wafted through the air and over the land--almost like an explosion in a

perfume factory--as well as the many colors which were on display throughout the

entire orchard! The blossoms first gave way to small buds of fruit which later

developed into succulent bites taken from the delicious mouth-watering fruit.

I also started thinking about this coming summer’s harvest which would bring

migrant workers from all over the country. They would be coming to our farm as

families, and would work all summer helping us harvest the fruit, sort the fruit, and

then pack the fruit for shipping.

Those who returned, year after year, grew to be close friends as well as co-

laborers. The Montoya family was one of those, and their son, Levi, was one of six

children. Although Levi was a little older than my brother Ellis, the three of us were the

best of buddies throughout harvest time. Every evening after work, Levi, Ellis, and I

would race down the hill to the river and wade in the shallow water, sometimes

swimming out to the “not swift” rapids. Downstream, the rapids became intensely

swift and dangerous. Our parents warned us, time and time again, to stay away from

the downstream rapids, but we couldn’t resist swimming as close to them as possible

without being sucked under.

Even though polio had weakened by left arm, I could still swim almost as fast as

Levi and Ellis. After swimming, we would leap onto the shore, quickly dress, and race

31

up the steep hill, around the corner, through the orchard, and back to the house. I

loved to run. I loved the feel of my feet pounding the soft orchard dirt. I ran with my

head up, my arms swinging, my legs pumping. It was good to be alive and to feel the

air rush past my cheeks as I ran.

My day-dreaming of this coming summer’s fun with Ellis and Levi was now

interrupted by the technician as I heard her tell my folks that we were finished with the

x-rays and that the doctor would be in soon to talk to us.

“It’s best, in procedures like this,” the doctor told my parents, “to cast the arm

and then have him stay here overnight for observation. You know, with his arm being

somewhat weaker, something might not be set right in the bone and we may have to do

it again. You can come back tomorrow and get him.”

I lay on the stretcher as the orderly, along with the nurse, pulled me back to my

hospital room. Looking up, I could see the lights passing by overhead. They seemed to

shimmer in a mysterious way as a sense of aloneness came over me. The orderly and

the nurse seemed to sense my somewhat dejected mood for they were trying to joke

with me and each other as they pushed the gurney down the hall.

In my room, the nurse said “Here we are. You can get some rest now,” as she

bustled about pulling back the sheets and helping me into bed. My left arm felt heavily

weighted down by the cast, and I winced from the pain which was still very intense.

The nurse said, as she left the room, “We’ll get something for your pain in a few

minutes.”

Thoughts raced through my mind of the events earlier that day and I wished--for

the thousandth time, it seemed--that I had not fallen out of that tree, or never climbed it

in the first place.

I heard the voice of the nurse as she came back into the room, “How are you

feeling now?”

“Not too good,” I said, trembling. She replied, “You’ll be all right, don’t worry. Roll

over on your side.” Quickly, she dabbed a piece of cotton on my backside. “Here

comes the mosquito bite!” she said, as I felt the needle going into my skin. I never did

like shots. “It’s all over,” she said, as she brushed the cotton again on the spot where

1My parents later learned that the nurse who administered the injection had just been transferred from the

adult intensive c are unit to the ch ildren’s ward . She had m istakenly given m e 50 cc’s--the full ad ult dosage--o f a

powerful new narcotic called Laratin. It is my understanding that this drug was taken off the market soon after that

time.

32

she had just withdrawn the needle. “Everything’s going to be just fine now . . . go to

sleep.”

I heard the swish-swish of her starched uniform as she turned, and I could hear

the soles of her shoes squeaking on the floor as she left the room. A rush of exhilaration

gripped my body! I was dancing on air--the pain was gone! But then the sounds in the

hallway became amplified and I saw the white wall suddenly turn red, green, purple,

spinning like a kaleidoscope. I was falling into the kaleidoscope--falling down, down,

down. I tried to grab at the walls to hang on, but my hands just slipped away as I lost

my balance and fell into the abyss of unconsciousness, suddenly enveloped by oblivion

and total darkness . . .

Not only had I fallen into unconsciousness, I was on the verge of falling from the

edge of life itself! The shot I had been given was a massive overdose of a powerful

pain-killer.1 The overdose had closed down my breathing and sent me into shock.

Fortunately, another nurse, passing by my doorway, heard noises from within.

Stopping, checking routinely, she discovered--to her horror--a young boy very close to

death. She saw me flailing wildly, gasping for air, and already blue from lack of

oxygen! She ran from the room and called for help.

In 1958, this small hospital had no emergency facilities, and so crucial time was

lost in getting oxygen administered to my oxygen-starved body and brain. By then, the

damage had been done. The brain and body are amazing instruments. Only an

omniscient Creator could have designed such intricacies as our bodies--as the psalmist

was told when he said “We are wonderfully and fearfully made.” A myriad of things

can go wrong with the body when oxygen ceases to flow to the brain. Severe brain

damage results--depending upon the degree of oxygen deprivation.

I went into a deep coma. For several weeks, fevers ranging at 105 degrees raged

throughout my body, sending it into body-wrenching spasms. Oxygen deprivation had

permanently damaged the visual and motor control lobes of my brain. During the

coma, it was fortunate for me that one of the specialists insisted on the constant flushing

of my bladder and bowels to keep them functioning. Without his insight and foresight,

I would have lost those functions as well.

33

Finally, after five-and-one-half weeks, the fever subsided. Although, I regained

consciousness, I was unable to see or speak or move my arms or legs--other than the

spasmodic vice-like involuntary muscle contractions.

My parents met with the doctor and specialists about my condition. On the

doctor’s office wall hung a row of medical degrees and certificates of professional

recognition. The specialist leaned back in his chair, peered through his wire-rimmed

glasses, and delivered his prognosis: “Your son will never recover,” he said. “We strongly

recommend that your son be placed in an institution. He will never regain any function of his

brain or his body!”

My parents sat in numbed disbelief, hearing this grim report. His words poured

over them like hot molten lead. “No!” my dad said, “we can’t do that! He’s our son--

we love him!” Mom tried to speak through her tears, her voice shaking, “I’ll do

everything I can to take care of him at home--we’ll take care of him at home!” The

doctors listened passively, “Okay, it’s your decision to make, but we strongly suggest

that you a look into it before you make a final decision. He would be better off in an

institution, and you would be better off, too.”

The institution they spoke about was a state hospital for the severely disabled. A

multiple disability often includes physical as well as mental impairment.

My parents did as they suggested, and made an appointment with the Chief of

Staff of the State Hospital. They arrived early for their appointment, and fidgeted in the

waiting room as the time for the meeting drew nearer. They sat in the waiting room

thumbing through out-of-date magazines until, at last, they were ushered into the

doctor’s office. He sat at his desk with my medical file open in front of him.. He looked

at them for a long silent moment, and then he said “Mr. and Mrs. Harris, all we can

offer your son is hospitalization. We have no facilities for on-going rehabilitation or

education. We can only give him custodial care.” If he meant for his words to offer

reassurance to my parents, he was wrong. “Hospital care--nursing care!” Mom turned

to dad and said, “We can do that for him at home--probably better than any

institution,” and she rose to leave. The doctor stood up and walked around from

behind his desk, reached out his hands, and apologized to my parents. “I’m sorry we

can’t help any more than that. It’s a tragedy, what happened to your son.” With tear-

filled eyes, mom and dad left the room and the hospital.

34

35

Chapter 5

The Struggle Back . . .

I lay on the hospital bed in my room. I had been home from the hospital for

three-and-a-half months. My mom and dad and brother had their hands full caring for

me. Friends and relatives became a vital support system--coming in and helping my

family with my constant needs. Turning me every two hours, feeding me, and--yes--

changing my diapers. I was not able to sit up. Sometimes I used the bedpan, but since I

could not speak, this was a hit-and-miss proposition.

My parents knew, through my grunting sounds, that I could hear and

communicate. They knew that I could not see. I lay there, blindly, hearing but not able

to communicate. I wanted to talk to them--but no words would come. I struggled in

vain to utter a single syllable. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I

opened my mouth, forcing out air--but no words came. The radio they left beside my

bed played throughout the day. They knew that I had always liked music. In the

hospital, one of the doctors on staff told the nurses to take the radio out of my room

because I couldn’t hear it anyway. My parents, learning of this, demanded that the

radio be returned to my room. The doctor’s comments were, “If it pleases the parents,

then let it stay, but the boy can’t hear it. His brain is completely destroyed.” I suppose

he was just being practical--all of his medical training indicated that someone in my

condition could not hear--could not function on any cognitive level. He could not have

been more wrong. To this day, I can still remember some strains of the music which

played on that radio at my bedside.

I lay on the bed in spasms, bent double. Sandbags were put on my right hand to

keep my fingers from curling up--my left hand was still encased in a cast. Weights were

required to hold my legs straight; otherwise, they would bend in knots. I could not

control them. They shook spasmodically. Sedatives, pain pills, and spasm relievers

were given to me. Later, I was to fight the addition of all this medication. But, in spite

of all the medication, my body was still bound in knots.

Grief, by its very nature, is often paralyzing--it robs you of a sense of security

and well-being. Grief is also a healing process as well. Wounds first have to be wounds

before they can heal, and grief is the first stage in the healing process.

36

That summer in 1958, I laid in the hospital bed at home in the room I had once

shared with my brother. In vain, I struggled to talk, but words would not come. I

could understand and hear everything around me. In spite of the doctor’s prognosis, I

was fully aware of my surroundings. My family’s love and commitment was the

cohesive component which held us together. I think now that what sustained my

parents throughout this ordeal was their love for each other, their love for their two

sons, and the common goal of keeping the family together and the farm going.

One day, they carried my bed out into the yard so I could experience a part of the

outdoor activities again. The bustle around me brought back a flood of memories--like

when I used to drive the tractor and help my dad in the orchards. I wanted to do that

again, and knowing that I couldn’t and that I might never do it again, overwhelmed me

with grief. I struggled to speak, “Carry me back into the house,” but no words came.

Frustration mounted, fanned by grief and self-pity. Doubt and fear filled me, and I

struggled to bring myself to a sitting position. My legs flailed wildly out of control. I

felt my stomach muscles tense as I lifted my head from the bed. The effort, though

valiant, was in vain. That was a bleak day for me.

There were better days. I continued to struggle and to exercise. Then, one day, I

could sit up. For a time, I had to be propped up with pillows--but I was sitting up

nevertheless. Each sign of progress was greeted by my parents with joy and a sense of

exaltation. “He is going to recover,” they told one another, and they told me I would be

able to walk again sometime soon. Every fibre within me cried for recovery, denying

the reality I didn’t want to accept. Perhaps that was best at that time. Had I been fully

aware of my plight, I would have given up the struggle to recover.

They put me in a chair one day, but I promptly fell out of it. They caught me

before I hit the floor. T hey had to tie me into the chair in order for me to sit

upright while they set up the wheelchair they had brought home from the hospital . . . a

big cumbersome reclining one. Even in a slanting position, I would still scoot down

onto the floor unless I was tied down. I just could not sit up because I had no muscular

control. Physical therapy helped me regain some of it. The long arduous hours of

exercising and painful muscle stretching, day after day, week after week, month after

month, finally resulted in more strength and renewed control.

I struggled intently to speak. Day after day, week after week, month after

month, until--at last--a year or so later, I opened my mouth and forced out air! Putting

my lips together, I formed the word “Mama.” I whispered it at first, “Mama . . .

37

Mama.” Then, with all the force I could muster, I said it out loud, “Mama! Mama!”

Suddenly, my mom was at my bedside. “Did you say ‘Mama?’” I nodded my head. I

said it again, “Mama! Mama!” She hugged me and kissed me and began to laugh and

cry.

My dad and brother were out in the field working in the orchard that day. Mom

ran out to tell them the news--I had spoken my first word! They dropped everything

they were doing and ran back into the house to celebrate my accomplishment.

Dad said, “You said ‘Mama,’ now you have to say Dad!” My brother chimed in,

“You have to say ‘Ellis’ too!” I stammered and garbled, “Da and Eh,” but the words

didn’t come just then. One syllable at a time, they came.

My vision was tested earlier by my parents. “If you can see this, grunt. If you

can see this, grunt twice. How many fingers do I have? No, not five. Try again. Three?

No, just two. How many fingers do I have now? One?” I nodded my head. I grunted

twice for two fingers--once for one finger.

Springtime brought thunder storms and lightning storms. “If you can see the

lightning, Eddie, grunt once.” The lightning split across the night sky. I grunted once.

“Okay, the next time, grunt twice if you can see the lightning.” The lightning flashed

again and two grunts were issued.

My parents knew that I had some vision--but how much, they could not judge.

They just knew that I could see some. I began to talk in monosyllables. “Eddie, if you

can see this, say ‘yes.’” If I could see it, I would say it.

I first met my speech therapist, Alice Wyatt, in the second year after I had come

home from the hospital. I was speaking the best I could. I could understand myself.

My mom, dad, and Ellis could understand me sometimes. “Why couldn’t other people

understand what I was saying,” I asked angrily. “They will, Ed, they will. First, we

need to work on some things. Stick out your tongue--make it like a pony in a pasture

running around a fence.” I tried it. “Now, back in . . . back out. Open your lips wide.

Breath deeply. Speak clearly. Enunciate more slowly. Slow down when you speak,”

her voice droned on and on.

Week after week, I used the tape recorder, alone in my room. “That can’t be

me!” I said, the first time I heard my voice. “I don’t sound that bad, do I, Mom?”

38

Mom said, “I can understand it.”

Dad said, “I can understand it.”

My brother said, “Well, I can almost understand it.” I tried again and again to

speak the way my therapist had taught me. “Slowly, enunciate each word clearly. Take

your time. Sing along with songs you know on your records. Whisper, as well. It will

strengthen your voice.”

She, the speech therapist, was instrumental in arranging for home tutoring for

me. So, it was about two years after I came home from the hospital and I started speech

therapy, that the home tutoring began.

My home tutoring was interrupted by the many months I spent in physical

therapy at the Shriner’s Hospital in Salt Lake City and at the Craig Rehabilitation Center

in Denver. The long hours of arduous physical therapy there began to bear results.

Finally, leg braces were adapted to me that stretched from my feet to my hips, with

locks at the knees. It was strange to stand up in them at first, but with the use of

parallel bars I was able to walk a few steps. These first, halting steps fanned the flame

of hope within me--I knew I was going to make it. I knew I was going to walk again.

This hope was short-lived when I lost my balance and fell during one of the therapy

sessions and broke my left wrist again. But this time, the bone that had been affected by

polio was impossible to reset. They just did the best they could in trying to reset it, but I

lost the use of it completely. The leg braces were of no benefit to me if I could not use

my arms to support myself on hand-crutches. With that, my dreams of walking again

were dashed for good.

My parents had tried, in vain, to help me get an education through a

correspondence school or through a classroom. They had even investigated the

Colorado Springs School for the Deaf and Blind. All to no avail. There was always a

catch somewhere. “We can’t take a student like that. We need a student who is at least

partially independent,” was the answer they received from the residential schools for

the disabled. The only school in Grand Junction that catered to special needs was not

equipped for someone whose needs were as special as mine, they told my parents.

Home tutoring continued, but I could not catch up with my class. I had lost so

much time, and now had so little to work with. I could not read anything in print. I

39

could not use braille. I did try, repeatedly, to learn the braille dots on the page, but my

fingers would jerk and miss the mark.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I told myself, “I can’t do anything! Why spend time

working at something I can’t do.” Talking books were introduced to me. At first, I

rejected them as being for people who were blind. I denied my blindness. I denied my

disability. I was just like anyone else, I told myself. Angrily, I resented anyone’s

inference that I was disabled or crippled. I would retort, “I don’t really need a

wheelchair, you know, I can crawl!”

Denial is an important part of acceptance. Later on, anger and bargaining are a

part of it as well. “God, if you will only help me learn to see again. If you will only

help me learn to walk again. I will do this or that for you. Please, God, help me to do

this.”

My fantasies became more intense and more pleasurable as I sat--day after day--

thinking about what I could do if only I could walk, or talk better, or see, or use my

hands again. I used to play baseball, so I would fantasize about being in a baseball

game. Winning the game for the team--being the hero--being the best student in the

class. I was all of that at one time, but no more.

The denial of reality is an important step toward accepting reality. At first, the

reality was so difficult to deal with, I could not face it. It was too devastating for me to

accept myself as I was. I thought I was nothing but a helpless, hopeless person who

could not do anything, who could not be anything, who would not ever be anything. I

felt intense self-pity welling up inside me. I cried.

I cussed. My family, Dad, friends . . . some of them understood. Some of them did not

understand my need for anger, that it is all a part of the therapeutic process of recovery.

Grieving is a part of recovery. We oftentimes do not understand that in our

culture. The need for grieving, the need for denial, is important in order to come to the

stage of acceptance. And, the need for acceptance is as important as the need to grieve.

Some are stuck there until they die. I am thankful that I worked through my needs and

was able to conquer the need for acceptance and adjustment. Adjustment remains a

daily challenge for me and the continued search for other viable options still remains. It

was too painful to believe that I would never walk again or see again. At first, I could

not accept that, so I repressed it from my consciousness and sought the fantasies.

40

Although I thought my world had all but stopped, the world around me continued to

go on.

My brother and our friends went on to school. Life went on as best it could for

me. Home tutoring dragged on. My physical and occupational therapy dragged on.

Home tutoring dragged on. My physical and occupational therapy dragged on.

Tediously, endlessly, it went on.

I remember going to church, even though I didn’t want to go back. “No!” I said,

angrily, “I won’t go there, not anymore. Look at what God did to me!” I spit it out

vehemently. My mom began to cry. My dad tried coercion. My brother tried force. I

lost. Carried angrily into the church, I was placed in the pew, seething inwardly,

hearing only bits and pieces of the sermon. The choir sang something about a friend in

Jesus. Caustically, I thought, “some friend, Jesus--look at what he did to me.”

At that time, I could not speak clearly enough to be understood. Perhaps it was

best, because I was angry and hostile and wanted to cuss out everything and everyone

around me. But the sermon and the music went on to talk about God’s love,

redemption through Christ, eternal life with Him, all things working together for the

good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose, and if God be for

us who can be against us. These words resounded from the pulpit week after week. It

seemed they were directed straight at me! These words I continued to reject. “If this is

God’s love, I’d sure hate to see what God’s hate would be like,” I would think to myself,

for I felt then that God did not love me. This mind-set continued for months as I was

carried to church.

The Sunday School class I was forced to sit through was much like the one I was

forced to sit through before my disability. But, this time, I could not read the books--

this time, I could not follow the lesson or hurl spit balls. I could only follow what I

heard, and I heard a lot. “God delivered Daniel from the lion’s den; He can deliver us

from any trouble or trial we have today!” the teacher was saying. “Deliver? Then why

doesn’t he deliver me from my wheelchair?” I thought hostilely. “Jesus walked on

water . . . Jesus performed miracles in Galilee.” I heard it all.

I thought, “Miracles--were they just for back then, or are they for now ? Why

can’t I have a miracle and get out of this danged wheelchair, or learn to talk better, or at

least be able to read again, or put an end to these damnable spasms!” These thoughts

41

were never expressed verbally, but were expressed though my acts of hostility. I

wanted to hurt myself. Suicidal fantasies were also a part of my cognitive process.

Acceptance came very, very slowly, and by minute degrees. The words of

Romans 8:28 began to haunt me as I lay awake at night, “And we know that all things

work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his

purpose.” The preacher’s voice echoed in my ears, “God cannot lie . . . God tells the

truth . . . His Word is the truth.”

Then, the pastor, Eldon Coffey-- who was a constant source of encouragement to

me even when I didn’t want him to be-- formed a young people’s Bible study group.

We met in the church, at first, then later for convenience at my home. Friends from the

youth group would take me with them to other homes where we would have Bible

studies once a week. We had refreshments and fellowship, but the study of the Word of

God was the most important part of our get-togethers, along with the singing and

guitar-playing.

Music ministered to me even in the depths of my disability. When I could feel

nothing else, I could hear and feel music. The words of the gospel music gave me hope.

My anger and bitterness began to dissolve and led to a resolution to become more like

Jesus. This was the prayer of our youth group. Although we were small in number, the

group continued to meet.

Then, our group began to dissolve as they went away to college or left for better

jobs somewhere else. They left behind, however, a memory and a message: “God’s

grace is sufficient. Trust Him, believe, obey. Not by sight, but by faith we walk each

day. Trust the Lord, one day at a time.”

This message became a constant refrain in my mind. Once having rejected it all, I

began to see, possibly, that it was the only way I could be complete--complete in Christ.

I could not be complete in myself, by myself. I thought I had little to offer, even to God.

I prayed, “God, I know that I am severely disabled. I can’t do much. Please take this

life and make something out of it. I can’t do anything, Lord. Do something through

me. Please, God, help me amount to something, someway, somehow.”

Perhaps I only half-heartedly believed that God would hear and perform a

miracle in my life. When my friends left to follow other pursuits, I began to doubt my

own prayers. I began to doubt that it had been real. Had it all been a joke? I did not

42

have any miracles to change my life, but my life had been changed, my attitude had

been softened . . . had been, somehow, made sweeter than before. I had arrived at

greater lessons.

I had never attended classes at the high school. All of my classes had been at

home with tutors. So, I was excited when the high school asked me to attend classes for

my senior year. I really enjoyed the experience of being in class with other students. At

the graduation ceremony, I received an honorary diploma, but my home tutoring did

not make me eligible for the high school credits necessary to be admitted to a college.

That is not the case now, because home schooling does qualify, but it didn’t then. I

tried, in vain, to enter colleges within and without our area, but was turned away.

Mom and dad packed the car and we took a trip to the eastern slope of Colorado,

and met with a junior college admission board. We were turned down. Angrily, I

exploded, “I can’t go to college? I want to go! I want to go now! What’s wrong here?”

My parents said, “Well, Ed, maybe you’re just not supposed to go to college.” I

couldn’t accept that. “I want to go to college. I want to get an education. I want to

learn!”

Coming back home in total discouragement, my life went on. I began to study

history and literature through talking books. I devoured book after book. I said, “I’ll

show them. I’ll learn anyway. Who needs to go to college to learn? It’s all a big joke

anyway!” Again, I rationalized my motives for learning. Then, I wrestled again with

bitterness and hostility toward a system that would turn me away from an education.

My brother had gotten his education. He had also gone to Viet Nam, gotten

married, and had a career. “But, what about me?” I thought angrily, “What about me!”

It was suggested that I take a correspondence course through Hadley’s School

for the Blind. I turned it down, angrily. I wanted to go to college, and if I couldn’t go to

college, then I didn’t want anything to do with education.

Sometimes, God brings people into our lives for specific purposes. God’s timing

is always perfect, even though it is years late in coming according to our calendar of

events. We can’t see the complete picture, only God can.

43

Bob Stevens came into my life one day. He and his wife, Rita, were Sunday

School teachers for the college career class. It had been some time since I had been to

church when the pastor brought the new teachers to introduce them to me. Bob

Stevens, a tall, lanky young man about 24 years old, stuck out his hand and grinned

broadly, “Hi, Ed, how’re you doing?” We talked awhile, no pressure was implied, but

his friendly outgoing manner lured me into his Sunday School class.

The class was small, but Bob and Rita continued to come and teach as if there

were a full house to hear the lesson. They also had a guitar and would sing. They

invited me over to their house for supper on many occasions. They became involved in

my life. They instilled in me a sense of importance. They made me feel important to

them, important to myself, and important to God.

I knew deep down that my high school diploma was only an honorary token, so I

began to study intensely for the G.E.D. exam. When they learned of my efforts, they

applauded most loudly. Encouragement is the life blood of hope and accomplishment.

Sometimes our failures can be our best accomplishment if they are placed in the hand of

a sovereign Lord. Often, the best learned lessons are born out of our greatest losses.

Nine months went by while I worked again with my tutor. Fractions, long

division, short division--all of that had to be read to me and the answers worked out in

my head. I did not have the luxury of working math problems out on paper or seeing

the examples worked out in the book. My tutor interpreted the math lessons and

English lessons on a tape, and I played and re-played these tapes until, finally, it began

to take shape. Nine months later, I took the G.E.D. test and passed.

I couldn’t wait to tell Bob Stevens about my accomplishment. He grinned and

said, “Now, we have a scholar on our hands.” That fall, he, Rita, and their young son

left Grand Junction to attend John Brown University in Arkansas.

I was excited for them, but I was also excited for myself because I had just

enrolled at Mesa State College to begin a four-year degree program!

The Lord knew I needed something beyond a G.E.D. He knows that we cannot

live without hope and we cannot live without a reason to live.

44

Chapter 6

College Is a Reality

That first day at Mesa State, my mother took me to the campus in my wheelchair

and, as we approached the main building, I was suddenly filled with panic. “Take me

home, I shouted to my mother, “I don’t belong here.” I thought everyone was going to

stare and make fun of me. I wanted to go home. I never should have started this. “We

are here and we are going to go through with it!” my mother firmly replied. She

confessed afterward that she was as afraid and intimidated by the college atmosphere

as I was. She had to force herself to keep going.

Just as we reached the front entrance, a student came up to us and asked us

where I was supposed to go. I said, “I am supposed to go to orientation class, but I

don’t know where it is. My advisor is Mr. Hightower.” He said, “Follow me,” and we

followed him through the big wide doorway and right into the orientation room. My

advisor said his name was Billy, not Mr. Hightower. He said, “Ed, you don’t have to go

through all that line out there. You can go back home. We’ll take care of things for you,

and you can come back and go to classes next week.”

So, that was my first day in college.

Classes began for me the next week. As my mom rolled me into the classroom, I

sat there and looked around before anyone else arrived. My mom set up a tape

recorder in front of me on the desk and then she left. Students began to filter in, some

talking, some laughing, some not saying a word. As books fell from their arms in a

heap onto the desks, the room began to fill up. Chairs shuffled as they squeaked on the

floor. Then, the instructor appeared at the front of the class through the open classroom

door. “I’m Professor Hightower and I am the teacher of this class and I expect you to be

on time.”

Then, he walked over to my desk and said in a quiet voice, “How are you doing,

Ed?” I said, “Fine, I think.” My professor-advisor touched my shoulder and said,

“That’s great.” He turned to the front of his class, reached out his right arm, and his

fingers picked up the chalk. His other arm ended in a short stump at his elbow. This

disabled-veteran professor began his opening remarks of Psychology 101 and I began to

feel at ease.

45

As he began to unfold the mysteries of psychological studies, I sat there

enthralled--drinking in every word that fell from his lips. He wrote on the board, and

then turned to me and proceeded to explain what he had written so that it would be

understandable to me when I played it back on my tape recorder. He made me feel like

I belonged there and was a part of the class. The hour ended all too quickly.

Tamara, a counselor in the office of Vocational Rehabilitation, helped me with

the paperwork and got all my books recorded onto tapes for my classes. After the first

quarter, my A’s and B’s encouraged me to go on to the second quarter, and the next,

and the next. My love for learning intensified as I delved into world literature, English,

psychology, sociology, civilization of the arts, history, music appreciation, and music

history.

My tutor, who was recommended by a college professor, was outstanding! Joy

Currier walked into my life, stuck out her hand, and said “Hi, there. I’m Joy.” I looked

at her middle-aged face and graying hair and said, “Hi, do you think we can do this

together?” She said, “You can do it, and I will help all that I can.” And, help she did!

She gathered research materials, typed the papers I dictated on the cassette recorder,

and prompted me on test exams. Without her, or someone like her, I could not have

accomplished the things that I did.

There were countless numbers of students who helped me in many, many

different ways--feeding me in the cafeteria, helping me to get to classes on time, and

getting my recorder set up so that I could record my class lectures. I also joined a study

group which facilitated my note taking.

Oral reports were agonizing for me because I was not accustomed to public

speaking. I stumbled, stammered, stuttered, and spit through a report of Homer’s

Odyssey. I later thought, “That was almost as hard for me as it was for Odysseus in his

trip through Hades!” Gradually, though, each report became easier. Many of my

exams were oral. Some had to be typewritten, and those were transcribed for me from

my cassette tape by Joy Currier.

Then, at last, I was able to take a class in Creative Writing. Richard Berkey

walked into the classroom and said “So, you are interested in creative writing. This is

where you are going to learn to write creatively, if I have anything to say about it!”

When the midterm story was due, I proudly turned in the first part of my finished

46

work. His comments were very encouraging. “Continue to write more, Ed. You have

potential in writing. Please write more and more, and rewrite more and more.”

The class lasted a full year, then I went on to magazine article writing. I

wondered if Mr. Berkey was getting tired of seeing me sitting in the front row of his

classroom with my tape recorder perched on my desk.

Whenever any course was offered in creative writing, I was there. I became close

friends with some other die-hard writer types. Writing became the main topic

whenever we were together. Those who weren’t interested in writing would casually

get up and leave the room or move to another table in the cafeteria when they saw the

four of us come into the room. I didn’t want to hear about their interest in advanced

calculus or science either, so the feeling was mutual.

Encouragement is the fulcrum which catapults us on to accomplishments.

Richard Berkey, Dr. Robert Johnson, and Doris Lay, the three English professors that I

had at Mesa State, encouraged me to continue with my writing.

On March 1, 1983, I graduated from Mesa State College with a Bachelor of Arts

Degree! After five-and-one-half years, I had achieved my goal of going to college and

getting a degree. It had been done with the help of Joy Currier and a handful of

dedicated professors, as well as my mom and dad who took me to and from school

when there weren’t other students available for me to arrange rides.

Friends are priceless gifts which enrich our lives in ways we can’t begin to count.

It is the Lord who is to be praised for our friends, for He is the one who directs our

lives. He is the only one who can meet those needs. Sometimes he chooses angels to

minister to us and other times He chooses friends--and sometimes I’m convinced the

two are synonymous!

“What next?” I asked Joy Currier. “A Master’s Degree, of course!” came her

confident reply. “I’ve checked into Denver University. They have a program in social

work. In fact, here is the application!” She handed it to me and said, “You need to fill it

out and mail it in before you do anything else.”

“I can’t move to Denver,” I protested lamely. “Why, I have no idea of where to

go or what to do when I get there!” Joy said, “There is a way, Ed. You can do it. Just

pray and believe, and you can do it!”

47

Earlier, I had talked about getting into an independent living center here in

Grand Junction, and leaving my home just to try it for awhile. Mom and dad had

supported me all through my college career. In fact, they had supported me all of my

life.

Alone in my bed at night, I would cry knowing that I had to do something--had

to make a decision. I did not want to leave home. I loved home! “Could I even make

myself do it?” I wondered.

The time to mail my application drew closer. I mailed it, but I did not expect to

be accepted into this prestigious school--Denver University. Weeks passed, and I began

to consider the possibility of leaving home and living independently of my parents.

Talking with my parents about it, often crying at night alone in my bed, I felt weighted

down by the impact of a decision that I could not bring myself to make.

I prayed, “God, what you have for me, I want. Please lead me in the way that is

best for all concerned. But, Lord, please help my parents and me adjust to whatever we

have to adjust to.”

I was accepted into Denver University. I knew it was going to be extremely

difficult.

Part II

48

54

Chapter 7

On My Own

I knew what my priorities were as I wheeled onto the campus of the University

of Denver that fall. The Master’s Degree that I was there to earn would give me the

credentials necessary to find a position in social work. A position that would be

effective in helping others. That was my goal.

The majestic red brick building which sat in the center of a tree-strewn, green-

grassed campus held--as it were--a sacred intent for me.

The summer I had spent in Denver had certainly been an eventful one. The 16-

story high-rise apartment building which was to become my home was located in the

heart of downtown Denver. I had left the calm serenity of rural life, not knowing what

to expect. Well, that is not exactly true, for I had been told to expect that the transition

would be difficult.

I had made arrangements to live in Denver through a newly-formed agency

called Hale Holistic Approach to Independent Living. This type of living center was

formed through federal, state and private funding in the 1970's and the Hale facility was

one of the first of its kind in Colorado. The purpose of this agency was to equip the

disabled in all the ways necessary for them to function as best they could outside of an

institution. The agency provided living accomodations and trained personal care

assistants to help with the basic needs of its disabled residents such as cooking,

feedings, showers, dressing, and laundry.

I had been told by the agency that the city buses were equipped with wheelchair

lifts and that transportation would be no problem in the city. I had been told that

attendant care was always available and I would have no trouble in finding someone to

meet the needs for my physical care. And, I had been told by the Hale people that its

agency would be more than adequate to meet my needs. As it turned out, however,

Hale’s definition of the word adequate and my definition was slightly different--to say

the least!

The process of leaving home had been a long one. I had previously toured the

apartment building for the disabled and low-income elderly where I would be living.

55

Invariably, it appears that these two categories are linked together--the disabled--the

poor--the elderly. Sitting there in the lobby of the huge apartment complex, I looked

around and tried to take in all the new stimuli at once.

Two men, one of them the apartment manager, and the other a program director

for the Hale agency, caught my attention immediately. The program director was in a

wheelchair. He and I followed the apartment manager into the elevator. I watched

these two men--the tall lanky apartment manager with his disarming friendly

mannerisms--and the sullen man in the wheelchair. I had talked with both of them by

long distance telephone many times, making arrangements for this day of arrival. I

asked, “Is my room mate here?” “No,” the man in the wheelchair grunted. “When will

he be here?” I asked eagerly. “I don’t know,” was his taciturn reply. At last, the

elevator stopped at the floor of my new home. The door opened and all of us got off. I

was in my newly acquired power chair. I had not used a power chair until recently. It

was a thrill to push a button and move by stirring the joystick which had been adapted

for my right arm. It was true that I did not steer the chair as smoothly as others, but the

muscle spasms of my right arm did not permit me to operate it in a smooth fluid

motion. Most of the time, though, the chair would go in an “almost straight” line.

As we entered the spacious apartment, the place looked bare. The furniture that

I had brought with me from home was not yet in place. The sliding glass door which

opened onto a big balcony graced by a three-foot high cement wall caught my eye. “I

can bask in the sun out there,” I said, “and no one would see me.” I tried to joke

because I was feeling scared inside and hoped that my light banter would keep me from

going into a panic. My repressed fears were: a new place, a new life, and new people.

Colleena and Ron, my aunt and uncle who lived in Denver, arrived shortly after

us. They walked into the room. I saw my uncle’s short thin frame, his shining bald

head, and his horn-rimmed glasses that glistened in the light which was streaming in

from the balcony door. My tall, slender aunt said, “This place is nice! When I heard

where you were going to be living, Ed, I shuddered. Nineteenth Street was the derelict

hangout of Denver at one time, but this place is beautiful!” My uncle chimed in with a

grin, “With Ed living here, it is going back to the derelicts.” “Only if you visit here,” I

quipped, trying to keep up the freewheeling flow of small talk. I didn’t know what the

two strangers in the room were thinking about us--perhaps it was “Did we get a live

one this time?”

56

The furniture began to fall into place with four hands helping--my aunt and

uncle and my mom and dad. Piece by piece, the room took on a new order. Then, a

knock at the door! As the door opened, I heard the high thin-pitched sound of a

wheelchair motor rolling into the room.

With a “Redman Tobacco” cap perched on his head, the brim turned slightly to

the left, and wire-rimmed glasses stretched over a chubby face, my new roommate

approached me. His parents behind him were saying, “You must be Andy’s

roommate!” I looked at him and said, “You must be my roommate!” He mumbled “I

guess so,” in speech that was slightly slurred and soft-spoken. It was that day that I

became acquainted with Andy and his parents--the Hartleys. Andy had been injured in

a motorcycle race--he turned the corner, but his bike did not. A flaw in the machinery

had created a permanent flaw in Andy’s life. He had suffered a severe head injury and

was now a quadriplegic. Head injuries are a mystery because they sometimes cause a

person to be outgoing and boisterous and sometimes, as in Andy’s case, the person

becomes very withdrawn and quiet.

Later that evening, we all sat down at the table for dinner--the newly blended

family. I was beginning to feel some anxiety about being there. The weight in my

stomach felt heavier than the food I had eaten.

Then, Ben came into the room--the short, stocky, blue-eyed stranger. At any

rate, he was a stranger to me, but Andy greeted him as though they were long-lost

friends! I surmised that they had worked together at the rehabilitation hospital where

Andy had been living the past two years. “Hi, Mate,” he said to Andy, “how you be?”

Ben then crossed the room to me and stuck out his hand. “You must be Ed. I knew an

Ed one time, but he was good looking!” His infectious laugh filled the room, putting

me and my family at ease. Ben was there to put Andy down for the night--which

consisted of undressing and hoisting him into bed. It all took time.

My parents and my aunt and uncle were getting ready to leave when another

knock was heard at the door and two women came into the room--Jane and Pat. Jane

was a short wiry person, and Pat was a tall big-boned black woman. As Pat grinned,

her white teeth seemed to fill her face, and she said, “Hi, Ed, I’m going to be your aide.

At least, I’m one of them.” Jane grinned and said, “Yeah, I’m Pat’s aide. Someone’s got

to take care of her to keep her in line.” We all laughed.

57

Before I went to bed that first night, I went outside onto the balcony. The city

street below glistened from the seemingly endless sea of lights. Homesickness gripped

my soul. I felt empty as a wave of loneliness poured over me! I was standing, or rather

leaning, against the cement wall of the balcony. The lights below swam as my eyes

started to fill. “What am I doing here?” “Me and my big ideas--I can’t go back now.

Do I want to?” Mixed emotions swept over me. I could not turn my back on this

opportunity. I was there to accomplish my goal. It was my reason for being there and

my reason for staying there. The fall quarter was three months away. In the meantime,

I had a lot to do--establishing my residence in the city, learning how to be “street

smart,” and taking a two-month training course with the Hale Agency where I was to

acquire the knowledge and skills I needed to use city transportation and to manage my

personal care assistants. I could not participate in the agency’s other classes such as

money management and cooking skills because of the severity of my disability. “Had I

bit off more than I could chew?” I asked myself. “Yes, I had, and it was almost gagging

me,” I thought. I prayed, “Lord, here I am. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I

know that you do.” That night, I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to begin a life on my own. I paused outside the

bathroom and reached to open the door. My chair moved forward as I grabbed the joy

stick that controlled my chair. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and said out

loud, “Well, Ed, old boy, what do you think about being alone?” “Well, I think I like it,”

I replied., “at least, I can have it quiet when I want it, that’s good isn’t it?” “Yes,” the

face in the mirror replied. I felt a rising knot in the pit of my stomach. “Can you handle

living alone?” I asked, “or are you just kidding yourself?” “Well, time will tell,” my

voice went on. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but right now I need to use the bathroom.”

Turning my chair sideways, I grasped the toilet rails. “These are sure nice,” I thought,

as I grabbed the armrest-like devices that were anchored on each side of the toilet. I

used them to pull myself up. Transferring back into my chair, I reversed the motor and

rolled back into my long hallway. Motoring into my spacious living room, I punched

the button on my stereo and classical music filled the room. I leaned back into my chair,

but felt a vague stirring of restlessness. I made my way to the telephone and took the

receiver off the hook. Laying it down, I raised my hand to dial a number. I reached out

and picked up the receiver and lifted it to my ear. I heard the ringing sound on the

other end, and the voice of my Aunt Collena saying, “Hello.” “Hi, how are you doing?”

I asked. Her voice brightened when she recognized my voice, and she said “Fine, how

are you doing?” “Okay,” I said, “it’s quiet here. Andy has gone to work.” We talked

for awhile and I began to feel less homesick and more comfortable in my new

surroundings. I would find that their consistent encouragement and sacrificial

58

dedication to their homesick nephew would be an important factor in my adjustment

over the next few months.

It was all new to me--the daily schedule. Ben was to be at our apartment every

morning at six to help Andy dress, have breakfast, and then pack a lunch for him to

take to work. I learned that Andy worked at a sheltered workshop--sheltered in that

the work was highly supervised with individual attention given to severely disabled

individuals. They were allowed to work at their own pace, and often developed skills

that enabled them to advance to better-paying jobs.

The next few days went by in a blur of new experiences . . . My roommate,

Andy, and I bore only one thing in common-- I learned that he knew the Lord and had

memorized, it seemed, a pound of scripture. Andy escaped into television and I didn’t

like television. He liked rock and roll music. I liked classical, jazz, and country. I loved

literature. Andy’s literary interest was limited to an occasional comic strip. I am given

to verbosity. Andy was taciturn.

Adjusting to my personal attendants, their personalities and habits, was a

tremendous challenge. Jane was saying, “It’s no big deal, Ed, I’ve done this since I was

fourteen,” as she wheeled me into the shower. “I know, but I’m not comfortable

working with a stranger, yet, at least not in a shower.” “All right, Ed, you can shut your

eyes and you won’t see a thing.” Her joking helped put me at ease as the shower

sprayed over me as I sat in a specially designed shower chair. Our voices echoed off the

tiled shower walls as she did what she was trained to do--caring for personal needs that

someone is not able to perform for himself.

Many different attendants came and went over the course of my stay. I recall

Tom, for example, a big strapping bruiser of a man, who was an ex-boxer. He would

hurriedly run into my room and prepare my meal in short order. Well, he did the best

he could to prepare my meal. I learned to like my food rare and sometimes not even

cooked. Tom would shadow box the air all around my living room. He would say,

“It’s all in the footwork, Ed, you need to be quick on your toes or else they’ll knock you

on your can.” I told Tom that I didn’t plan to box, but I had seen it on television and it

didn’t interest me very much. He paused in mid-swing, turning to look at me, his

crewcut cropped head turned. He glared down at me from his six-foot-four-inch frame.

He said, “You don’t like boxing? What do you mean, you don’t like boxing!” He

started toward me and I thought, “I don’t know this man, but I don’t have a good

59

feeling about him. How do I handle him?” I was afraid of this giant hulk of a man. I

had heard rumors about him from others. He was not well liked by anyone.

Laying down my spoon, I looked up at him and said, “Tom, I don’t know you

very well, but I want to. I hope we can be friends; but, honestly, I don’t like boxing at

all. You do, and I’m glad that you do.” I don’t know whether it was my honesty or the

Lord intervening--I’m sure He was there. Tom’s hand went out and touched my

shoulder, and he said “I want to be friends with you, too, Ed, you’re the best one I work

with. You listen to me and you care. The other people I work with don’t.” “Thanks,

Tom,” I said, reaching out my hand to grasp his in a firm shake. And, I do mean firm--

his grip would have brought me to my knees had I been standing. I never saw Tom

again. He was fired by the agency soon after that for reasons that were never made

clear.

As the summer melted away into activity and adjusting, I found a “mobility

instructor” who was trained to help the blind find their way around. The instructor was

with me for a couple of weeks as I learned to get on and off the bus to and from Denver

University. I could not use a white cane, but I had enough vision to be able to know

when the traffic lights changed from one color to another. Then, I learned to determine

from the sound of the flow of traffic what color the light was for the direction I was

going. Curb cuts are also very important to the blind or sight-impaired. Guide dogs are

trained to stop at every curb. When curbs are not cut and merely sloped into the street,

the dog does not stop. The blind who walk with the aid of a white cane also use the

same technique--to feel for the curb cut as the signal to stop. I also learned from my

mobility instructor how important it was to avoid getting my wheels caught in the

grates of the storm drains at the street corners.

One late summer afternoon, I was almost taking a nap and Andy was in his

bedroom parked in front of his omnipresent television set, when we heard a pounding

at our front door. Andy’s chair came alive as he shifted his gears and turned around in

his room to dart for the front door. As he shouted, “Come in,” the front door swung

open and a voice--which would have done credit to a Daniel Webster--boomed out and

literally filled the room.

“How are you doing, Andy, it is good to see you again!” “Pastor Clark!” Andy

almost shouted the words as the two men embraced like people do who are close but

haven’t seen each other for a long time. Andy backed up into the living room and

Pastor Clark followed him. Before Andy could introduce us, the diminutive but

60

dynamic pastor reached me in quick long strides, reached out his hand and grasped

mine in a firm--and I mean firm--grip. He shook my hand vigorously as he boomed

again in a loud voice, “I’m Pastor Clark and I’m glad to meet you.” I liked the man

instantly--he appeared to exude energy and sincerity all at the same time. I learned

that Pastor Clark had visited Andy in the hospital just after his injury seven years ago.

His monumental love for the Lord and people was incredible! Pastor Clark’s

congregation was in a small church on the outskirts of Denver. Even though Andy had

not been a member of his church at that time, he ministered wherever he saw a need.

He sat in the overstuffed chair across the room from Andy. Leaning forward, his

hands upon his knees, his deep penetrating eyes fixed on Andy, he said “How are you

doing on your verses?” Then, he turned to me and said, “Are you a Christian? Do you

know the Lord?” I knew that this man meant business! “Yes,” I replied. “How do you

know?” he asked. Somewhat taken off guard, I said, “John 3:16.” He said, “Do you

know the verse--can you recite it?” I did--after which he said “The Word of God is the

only way we can be sure of our salvation.” He then turned to Andy, and said “How

about some verses today!” For the next fifteen minutes, Andy rattled off scripture

verses word-for-word, punctuated by Pastor Clark’s enthusiastic “Good--that’s right--

excellent!” I had known that Andy was a Christian, but I hadn’t known that he was

also a rolling Encyclopedia of Scripture Britannica!

Then, Pastor Clark said, “Let’s sing, Andy. What song do you want today?”

Andy replied, “I don’t know” in his customary monotone, so Pastor Clark said “How

about Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine? Ed, if you know it, you can join us.” That

afternoon, I learned more about what it meant to make a joyful noise unto the Lord!

The singing was way off-key. It could have been me or it could have been them. I

think it was me, but the noise was a joy-filled one.

Pastor Clark rose to go, leaving behind a spirit of joy and exhilaration which

touched me deeply. The man’s love for the Lord and his love for Andy was apparent.

His love for me was also obvious when he gripped my shoulder and said, “We’ll see

you again, Ed, it was so good to meet you.” He turned to Andy and said, “You see that

Ed hears the Word.” He turned to me and said, “And, Ed, you see that Andy hears the

Word. Pray together.” Pastor Clark left the room--the door swung shut behind him.

61

62

Chapter 8

Life and Death in the City

Lost, I thought. No, lost again! The rain had begun to pour and I was getting

soaked. The bus stop on Fifteenth Street seemed an eternity ago, although it was

probably only minutes since I had gotten off. I tried to trace back in hopes of finding

my direction, but I was disoriented and couldn’t find my way. Panic began to grip me

from behind and then reach around to encompass all of me. I was scared! It had

happened before during that summer--making the wrong turn, going off the sidewalk

and even tipping over in my chair. I looked around--people were passing by me. “Can

you help me?” I said. No one seemed to hear me asking for help as they continued to

rush by. I sat for a long time in the rain on the corner of God-knows-where. I sure

didn’t.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man appeared beside me and said, “Can I help

you?” I don’t know where he came from, but he must have noticed my consternation.

It only takes one person to care at a critical time to make a difference in someone’s life.

“I’m trying to get to Nineteenth Street, Sir, but I don’t know which way to go.”

He said, “Nineteenth Street is this way,” and pointed. I asked, “Could you tell me

which way to turn as I can’t judge which way you are pointing. You see, I’m partially

blind.” “I should have known,” the man said, “You turn to your right and go to the

next corner--that will be Nineteenth Street.” I said, “Thank you,” as I turned to shake

his hand, but there was no one there. “That’s funny,” I thought, “he was here just a

second ago.” But, things like that happen to me all the time.

I recalled my first excursion into downtown Denver with my aide, Jane, and her

off-handed casual style as she said, “You can learn your way around this city in no time

at all. Can you see that light across the street, Ed?” The sounds of the city traffic

hammered in my ears as the cars whizzed by. She said, “It’s the light with the arrow.” I

couldn’t help but reply with a line from an old joke, “I don’t even see the Indian!” Jane

laughed and said, “My mother told me there would be people like you, but I didn’t

know they would be this bad.” She reached in her pocket for a cigarette. The flame

flickered from her lighter as she held it up to the cigarette hanging from her lips. She

inhaled deeply and, as the smoke rose around her face, she raised her hand and pushed

back a strand of hair from her forehead. Pointing across the street, she said “See that

63

light?” I followed her arm and looked in the direction she was pointing. It turned red

just then. I focused my tunnel vision in the direction of her outstretched arm and said,

“Yes, I see it!” “Well, Ed, we walk when the light turns white.” Thus, I learned to

maneuver part of the maze that was otherwise called “downtown Denver.”

It happened again on a cold winter day when I had left the apartment on my way

to the bus stop on Fifteenth Street. I was wrapped in my coat, mittens and cap. The

snow had accumulated overnight, leaving in its wake an icy white sheen covering the

streets. The sidewalks were icy and I was motivating in low gear. One block before the

bus stop it happened--my chair began to tip precariously. I had missed the curb cut.

My chair was suspended somewhere between me and the ice-covered street. I didn’t

have time to pray more than just “Lord! Help!” I felt myself slipping out of the chair.

Oh, no, I thought, as I slipped onto the street. I saw the street as it rose to meet me. It’s

sudden greeting was not friendly--I guess I could say it was a cold greeting. Then--

again from out of nowhere--a hand gripped me and a man said “Hang on,” as he picked

me up and put me back in the chair. He grasped the gear shift and pulled the chair back

on the sidewalk. I turned to look at my rescuer, “Thanks, I needed that!” His hand

shake was warm in contrast to the icy cold and he wasn’t wearing gloves. I couldn’t

understand that. “What’s your name, I want to . . .” I looked up and the man was gone!

I was sitting in my chair, back on the sidewalk, with no one around.

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels

unawares.” Hebrews 13:2 Angels unannounced appear when we need them the most.

Angels? Maybe--maybe not, but I know the Lord directed these men to me when I most

needed them.

I made my way back to the apartment building I called home and didn’t go out

again that day. The weather in Denver can change in a heartbeat, but that day it

remained icy and cold, so I basked in the warmth of my apartment while gazing out my

balcony window at the cold snow-shod streets below. It was during cold bleak days

such as that one when I liked to let my imagination take me back home where I would

be siting outside by the open fields, basking in the sun, listening to a colorful concert

conducted by the wild birds around me. The musical melody of the meadowlark

harmonized with the blackbird’s trill and the quiet haunting song of the turtle doves

offset the melodious honking of the pheasants in the fields. I let these soft beautiful

sounds surround me as I sat there on the sixteenth floor of my high-rise apartment.

64

Another incident happened one cold winter evening as I pressed the elevator

button in the lobby of my apartment building--my hands still shaking from the bitter

cold outside. It was one of those lonely nights when I felt tired and dejected--I just

didn’t care. As the elevator door opened, I swung inside, turned around, and pressed

the button to my floor. The numbers on the elevator panel were large enough for me to

see some of them, but they all blurred together, so I just memorized their positions. Not

such a big feat, really--only sixteen floors. The elevator door closed and I felt my

stomach sink as I began to rise. The lights flashed above the door, indicating each floor

as it passed. Suddenly, it stopped and the door flew open. I pushed my chair into gear

and rolled out into the hall. I was startled by two women who were standing just

outside the elevator door. One was dressed in black, and the other one had on a no-

color coat and jeans. At least, that is the way they appeared to me. They had something

in their hands, but I couldn’t see what it was. Then, one of them said “Hi, would you

like to come to a party?” I thought, “Strangers--what are they doing here?” I replied

“No, I don’t think so.” Then, in the same sentence, I said “Where is the party?” One of

them replied, “It’s at your place!” I was confused. I started to tell them that I lived on

this floor, but the words caught before I could get them out. Finally, their suggestion

registered! Crimsoned-faced, I put my chair into high gear and sped away down the

hall toward my room. Reaching my apartment door, I stopped and thought “I’m lonely

. . . I need someone to talk to.” I was rationalizing to myself as I turned my chair

around and foolishly headed back toward the elevator. Turning the corner, I saw the

elevator door, but the two women were gone. Turning my chair around again and

slowly making my way back to my apartment, I was struggling with the temptation to

go down to the lobby to look for them. Suddenly, I heard the telephone ringing in my

apartment. I sped up my wheelchair while fishing the key out of my pocket and

struggled to unlock the door. Three rings, four, five, six, seven--I grabbed the phone

breathlessly. Bob Steven’s voice rang clearly across 250 miles. “Ed, what’s going on? I

just had an urge to pray for you about an hour ago. I called you earlier, but you were

out!” Shakily, I told Bob what had just taken place. He said, “You made the right

decision, Ed.” I replied, “It wasn’t my decision, it was a case of the intervening again.”

Bob chuckled as he said, “He always does, Ed, if we are in His will.” I thought to

myself, “And He sometimes does it when we are out of His will, too.”

Angels appear unannounced just when we need them the most. A good friend

may be an angel in disguise, such as when Bob’s intuitive telephone call came to me at

just that moment--turning me back to my apartment rather than going down to look for

those two women.

65

The next morning as I was heading out the door toward the bus stop, the

apartment manager stopped me and said, “Did you hear about Gary?” I said, blankly,

“No,” as I pictured my friend who was a few years younger than I, in a wheelchair and

had to struggle to speak. Gary was a self-appointed Alabama cowboy. His big, broad-

brimmed hat pulled down over his ears and his cowboy boots braced against his

footrest on the wheelchair was a familiar sight to me. “Well,” the manager said, “Last

night Gary was assaulted and robbed by two women! Luckily, he’s going to be all

right.” I was stunned and speechless.

As I headed down the street, I thought of the other people I knew in my

apartment building, like Dave, who was a hardened cynic and perpetually pessimistic.

I remembered one time we had been talking together and watching him pull a cigarette

from his pocket while fumbling with his lighter. He dropped the lighter on the floor

and swore as he stooped to pick it up, his fingers fumbling and then, finally, grasping

the elusive lighter. Straightening in his wheel chair, he said, “I should quit these things,

but you gotta die sometime, and one way is as good as another.” He squinted his eyes

as the smoke curled up from his mouth, looked at me, and said “What have you got to

say about that, preacher boy?” I looked at him, his long red hair stringing just below his

ears, and pondered his statement. I said, “You are right. Everyone has to die

sometime.” I thought I knew all there was to know about theology as I intoned

sanctimoniously, “It is appointed to us once to die and then the judgment.” I felt so

smug because I had all the answers to the questions he was not asking me. A snort of

derision came from him as he exhaled a puff of smoke. “You think you are so smart,”

he grunted, “You know it all don’t you!” “No, I don’t,” I said, “But I know Who does.”

He said, “Amen, brother, preach away!” Later, the more I learned to listen to Dave, the

more I learned of his deep raw pain. He had been a roughneck on a Wyoming-based oil

rig at the time of his injury. He was the driver of a car that had careened off a high

mountain pass. Dave was another in a seemingly endless series of statistics created by

intoxication.

By now, my school routine was in full swing. A winter snow had hit Denver

with a vengeance, closing the school. My attendants could not even get through the

streets to help me up in the mornings. I felt fortunate that I was able to dress and make

my way out into the kitchen to get a glass of water, a cracker, or a piece of bread out of

the refrigerator. My personal attendants’ care was, for the most part, excellent, but

when the city streets were closed to traffic it was hard for anyone to get through. Even

the place of my school internship was closed because of the storm.

66

Education is a remarkable thing. In the master’s program, it was an act of

balancing classroom studies with on-the-job skills--applying classroom learning to

practical experiences. The year passed quickly, though. My friend, Ralph, was a fellow

student sent to me of the Lord. We worked together on certain projects; we shared

school-day trials. There were others in the school that were a constant source of

encouragement to me. The work became heavier as time went on. Demands grew,

panic gripped my stomach turning it upside down. I wanted to run away, but knew I

couldn’t.

I had met Ralph, a first-year student, soon after started to school that fall. His

tall, lanky frame loomed large in front of me as he reached out his hand and introduced

himself. “If you need any help, Ed, let me know.” His affable manner captured my

friendship instantly. I learned that we had the same classes--classes which stretched

into projects. Projects that became vast undertakings of research, statistics, and

formulating data of all kinds, shapes and sizes. The work had really set in, and added

to this was my internship. My master’s degree was to be based on the successful

completion of my internship as well as my grades.

I met many people in the course of my studies, and the constant association with

other students from a variety of backgrounds helped me learn and grow as an adult.

The outgoing, fun-loving Patricia was one example. She was a doctoral student and a

tremendous asset to me in my sojourn over the first year at Denver University. Her

Catholic background and her large Italian family helped shape her into a kind, caring

individual. Nevertheless, she could confront as well, and confront me she did! “Ed, get

with the program,” she would say, her dark eyes flashing. “You’ve got a mind, so use

it. What you need is a kick now and then with a steel-pointed boot, so get with it!”

Those words weren’t spoken in anger, but because she cared about my welfare and I

knew that. Sometimes, I would challenge her as well, and we became a good working

team on campus.

But then there was Martha--who is a whole chapter in herself . . .

67

Chapter 9

Martha . . . a woman of another kind

Martha was a lady who needed a friend. I had first met Martha in Grand

Junction the year before I moved to Denver. She worked for a vocational rehabilitation

counseling agency. Upon our initial meeting at that agency, I thought, “What a beast

she is!” She struck me as being hard-nosed, hard-hearted, and soft-headed, to put it

mildly. Imagine my chagrin when, due to a transition in the agency, she became my

rehabilitation counselor!

Although I did not know it at the time, Martha suffered from a manic-depressive

disorder but she refused to take the Lithium medication which was prescribed for her.

As a result, she had many mood swings from biting sarcasm and bitterness to sweetness

and light. Her personality and her moods were unpredictable.

I still don’t understand the fine line between love and hate. The emotional center

of the brain is something that baffles even the best doctors. I couldn’t believe what was

happening to me--this woman I had such an aversion to at the beginning was now

becoming a woman that I loved--or thought I loved.

When we first began talking on a personal level, I learned of her faith. It was a

cult. I didn’t care that she was not a Christian. I wanted a friend--a female companion.

“I can lead her to the Lord,” I told myself, but I knew that the Lord didn’t want me to

become involved with her. I rationalized to the Lord that I knew I could lead her to

Him if I just had enough time. I could justify anything when I wanted my own way. At

least, that is what I wanted then.

Was it me or was it Martha who changed? I never took time to analyze it. With

hindsight, I am now able to see that Martha’s romantic interest in me started when she

learned that I had been accepted at D. U. and I would be in a graduate program at that

prestigious university. But, back then, I was aware of only one thing--that I was in love

with the woman. I recognized the contrast in our backgrounds. She had been married

previously and had a twelve-year-old daughter, Amy. I liked Amy and viewed her

obnoxious mannerisms as charming adolescent proclivities. I had never been in love

with anyone before and refused to examine my relationship with Martha. I knew I

liked it. That was enough for me.

68

We went to movies. She fixed dinner for us at her house. Sometimes her

daughter was there with us and sometimes her daughter was away visiting her father.

I thought I was in love. I thought it wouldn’t matter that she was involved with a cult.

It will be all right, I told myself, we can make it work.

Martha said my folks made her nervous. Mom and Dad had tried to talk to me

about her, but I refused to listen. My aunt and uncle had tried to broach the subject of

their concern about my increasing involvement with her, but to no avail. I blocked out

the idea that my family had my best interests in mind.

Once I had moved to Denver, we continued to see each other. Martha would

drive in and often meet me on campus. She seemed to like being seen with me on

campus more than any other place, and she often accessed the D. U. Library by virtue of

my student identification card to study for continuing education credits required by the

agency she worked for. She would often stay at my apartment on weekends.

I became defensive every time someone mentioned her name. Andy told me that

she was too fat for me and he said, “Besides that, Ed, she’s ugly!” “You’re just jealous,”

I retorted and left the room in a fit of anger. Even Andy’s aide, Ben, tried to talk to me

one day about my increasing involvement with Martha. “Let’s go outside for a walk,

Ed,” he suggested one afternoon. As he walked beside my chair, he swung his arms in

a nonchalant manner and said, “You know, there are lots of girls around, Ed, some nice

ones too.” He laughed as he quipped, “You know, the ones who go to bed and then go

home.” I said, “That’s not funny,” as I grinned in spite of myself. He continued--“Ed,

you are on your own for the first time in your life. You need to give yourself a chance

to date a lot of girls--not just Martha.” He didn’t like her either. You would think that I

would have taken a hint, but I refused to let go of my obsession for Martha.

Late one Friday afternoon, she called to say that she had been in Denver on

business and was getting ready to go back to Grand Junction. She would pick me up

and I could ride back home with her to spend the weekend. It was time for a brief break

from studying all the time, I told myself, as I leaned back in the seat of her car heading

west towards home. The snowflakes had already started to cover the roads as we left

the city behind. “Just don’t go to sleep, Martha, it’s a long way home.” “Don’t worry, I

won’t,” she said. Night driving on mountain roads in a snow storm is not the best place

to be. “Would you mind slowing down, I think you are going too fast for these

conditions,” I remarked. “Don’t worry, I’m just going the speed limit,” she replied.

69

“But, slow down anyway,” I said, as I began to feel a vague sense of foreboding, the

same foreboding that I had sensed when I agreed to make this impulsive trip.

I readjusted my seat to a reclining position and her car slowed as we started into

a long-winding curve. She screamed, “Oh, no, we’re going to have a wreck!” I jerked

my head up off the back of the seat and heard the squealing brakes as I saw the back of

a truck right in front of us! I was catapulted forward, my foot slammed against the

floor board, and the white stabbing pain that ran up my leg told me I had broken my

ankle. I felt my stomach drain as the blood rushed to my broken foot. My head spun,

but, strangely, the first words that came out of my mouth were, “Thank you, Lord!” I

wasn’t at all sure what I was thanking the Lord for. I would like to think it was an

expression of praise from the heart, but I’m really not sure. I heard Martha’s voice,

sounding somewhat slurred, saying “I’m all right, are you?” Or, was it my voice asking

this of Martha? I didn’t know. Suddenly, my mind cleared and I felt calm and peaceful.

I heard her mumble, “What happened?” I was afraid she might have a concussion and

asked her to count to ten, what her name was, and asked her if she knew where she

was. Satisfied with her answers, I just leaned back to wait and told her that help would

be here soon. I wasn’t too convinced of that, but I wanted to comfort her. I don’t know

how long we waited until we heard the sound of a high-pitched siren coming towards

us. As the rescue unit came alongside, I heard car doors open and a voice saying,

“Looks like we’ll have to get a wrecker for this job--it’s totaled!” I complained about

my foot and said “My wheelchair is in the back, I can’t walk.” Someone said, “You are

lucky you weren’t going any faster or you would have had your head cut off!” That

was good to hear.

The ambulance rushed us to the Vail Valley Hospital’s emergency room. The

attending doctor examined me and put a cast on my broken foot. I called my dad to see

if he could come and get me. Once dad was convinced that we were not badly hurt,

that I had just broken my foot, his concern and relief changed to exasperation. From the

sound of his voice, I knew he wanted to say “Well, you made your bed, now lie in it!”

Instead, he told me they had a truck to load this morning for apple harvest and he

couldn’t leave. He added, “I can’t understand why you came with her in the first place,

driving through the mountains on a night like this!” Suddenly, I began to wonder the

same thing myself. Dad told me he would try to find someone to come for me and

would call me back.

70

Meanwhile, Martha hadn’t hung around to see how I was doing. She had

already left to catch a bus to Grand Junction before they finished putting my foot in the

cast.

So, I sat there in the waiting room, alone, feeling forlorn and foolish. There

wasn’t much else to do but sit and think--and think I did. The thought crossed my

mind “It doesn’t feel like love to me for Martha to leave me here in the hospital. I was

immersed in pain and pain pills, and, for the first time, I faced the fact that maybe those

who had been talking to me about her just might possibly have a point. I asked myself,

as I sat there all alone with my foot in a cast, hurting, taking pain pills, “Is there

something wrong with this picture?”

I waited until 3:30 that morning for my friend, Dan, to pick me up. Dad had

called him that night because he knew that Dan was going to Denver the next morning.

When he walked into the hospital waiting room looking for me, I had never been so

glad to see him or his friendly face! He pushed me out of the hospital in my chair, lifted

me into his vehicle, and we took off for Denver.

Dan and I had been teacher-student as well as friend-friend. His encouragement

had lifted me ever since we met. He had been my home teacher for the blind and had

built me a special abacus to use for math calculations because the one I had tried to

work with didn’t fit my disabled fingers. I recalled the hours we had spent together--

the times I had gone on picnics with Dan and his wife and other friends on soft summer

days. They would spread blankets out on the ground and lunch baskets would appear

out of nowhere. Conversations would expand and contract about life, joys, hopes and

dreams as it does with close friends.

I didn’t feel like talking this morning, though, as my broken foot and my

wounded heart continued to throb. Dan was saying, “Ed, your friendship with Martha-

-tell me more about it.” I sidestepped his question as I launched into a long rambling

tale about the things we had seen and done together in Denver. Avoiding the

emotional aspect of my involvement, I failed to realize the significance of my resistance

to Dan’s question. He was my trusted friend. I sensed he wanted to warn me about

her, and I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to avoid the painful emotions that were just

beginning to surface. Dan snapped on the radio and said, “Maybe we can get an

early morning traffic report.” “Good idea,” I said, much too quickly.

71

Dan didn’t need any directions to my apartment, he visited me whenever he was

in town. This morning, he slowed as we entered the city, moving with the veins of

traffic. The arteries of the city seemed clogged as traffic slowed to a crawl. Finally, Dan

wheeled up to the front of my apartment building and stopped the vehicle. “I don’t

think I can transfer out of here to my chair, Dan,” I winced. “Just a minute,” he said, as

he backed my chair onto the sidewalk and set its brakes. Leaning into the passenger

side, he put one arm under my right leg and found a place to grip under my left

shoulder with his other arm. “Easy with that left arm,” I said. He looked at me and

said, “Yeah, I know.” That atrophied polio limb was extremely weak. My jaws

clenched with pain as he lifted me out and into my chair. Moments later, we entered

my apartment. “It’s 7:30,” Dan said, “what can I do for you before I go?” “Well, I guess

I had better call home first, then I’ll call my aunt and uncle and let them know I’m back.

I’ll be all right,” I assured him, not realizing the foolishness of that statement. The

hospital had given me a supply of codeine, and I took two before making my calls. I

had told my aunt that she would not need to come over, that I was going to call the

Hale Agency when they opened at 8:00 and tell them that I came back unexpectedly and

would need my personal attendant to come today after all. My assurances fell on deaf

ears--she insisted on coming over to check on me and to fix breakfast. She arrived soon

after my call with her familiar “tap-tap” on my door and the sight of her brought an

overwhelming sense of relief. I was happy to see her. After we had finished breakfast,

she asked “Are you sure you can make it here with that foot in a cast?” “Oh, sure,” I

said, almost nonchalantly. “I called the agency and they will have someone here by

noon.” The morning dragged by slowly, and then it was one o’clock and then

two o’clock. By three o’clock, I was getting irritated. Getting to the bathroom was

difficult before, but now it was almost impossible for me. As I reached for the bed

railing to pull myself up, my left foot raised precariously in the air, I tried to balance

myself on my right leg and turn to sit upright. I felt myself start to fall. I slid against

the bed, unable to put weight on my broken foot to brace myself, and felt myself slip to

the floor. “What do you think of that?” I asked myself. “Here you are all alone,

helpless, and in pain. What a mess!” Self-pity surged up within me. My foot throbbed

worse now than before. To my right, barely out of reach, I could see my telephone

sitting on my desk. I tried to scoot closer, but every movement sent new pain jolting

through my foot.

Suddenly, the phone rang. I slapped at the cord, trying to unhook the receiver.

The first time, I missed--the second time I managed to get one finger on the phone long

enough to pull it out of the cradle. As it crashed to the floor, I shouted, “Just a minute--

hang on!” Pulling on the cord, I jerked the receiver up to my hand and lifted it to my

72

ear. I managed a “Hello,” hoping they had not hung up. I was relieved to hear Dan’s

voice asking me how I was getting along. As I told him what had happened, he said he

could come over after he finished his meeting. I knew that another trip to my

apartment would put him far out of his way, and so I asked him if he would call my

aunt and uncle who lived only minutes away from me. “I know that they will be home,

and please tell them I am all right, but need some help over here.” Knowing my family

and their tendency to overreact in a crisis, I knew that it would be only minutes before

either or both of them would be at my door. In less than ten minutes, I heard the knock

at my door.

But it wasn’t my aunt that came into my room--it was my attendant Pat who

came in and saw me laying on the floor. “Lord-a-mercy, Ed, what’s the matter?” I

explained to her what had happened and that I had expected her to be here several

hours ago. She said, “What do you mean? This is the first I ever heard of it. I was just

in the building and someone said you were back, so I stopped by to say hello. The

agency didn’t call me.” Her ire began to rise as she paced back and forth, calling wrath

down upon the agency that had messed up again. The message hadn’t been given to

her or any other attendant on duty that day.

Pat offered to stay and fix me something to eat, but I told her that my aunt was

on her way. “I think I’ll go home with her tonight and spend a few days at her house

until I feel better, Pat.” Leaving the kitchen, she walked over to me, gave me a big hug,

and apologized again for the agency’s breakdown in communication.

As my uncle wound in and out of traffic, I leaned back in the car seat and

listened to their heated discussion about the agency not responding to my request for a

personal attendant that day. “We don’t want the place butchered and hung out to dry,

Ed, but we think someone should investigate that place. That Agency has messed up

too many times, and that Wilson fellow who runs the place is the worst one of all!”

I thought of Dick Wilson, the Program Director for the Hale Agency--the man I

had met when I first moved into my apartment. He sat there in his wheel chair, one

arm dangling loosely at his side while the other arm rested on the chair--a brace

extended his fingers and hand. “I’m the Director here,” he was saying in his perpetual

monotone. “Since you are going to be interning with us for your Master’s Degree, you

will get to know me well.” That first summer, I saw him daily at the agency office. He

conducted some classes that I attended there. He was saying, “Ed, you are on your own

now and yet your family is still too much in your life. Don’t you think it is time for you

73

to grow up?” I felt my stomach constrict inside. I had faced him repeatedly over the

summer--clients were selected to work with the staff on pertinent issues pertaining to

the disabled community. He went on to say, “For example, your aunt and uncle are

cosigners on your check book. You rely on them too much. I could do that for you.

You need to hit a few bars--you know, get drunk a couple of times and watch the girls.”

As my aunt and uncle continued to voice their dissatisfaction with the agency,

and with Dick Wilson in particular, I felt that I should come to his defense--mostly

because I still had to do my internship there--but I also felt that their complaints were

valid

“I guess you know I wouldn’t do this for just anyone,” my uncle was saying, as

he held my casted foot up out of the water while I leaned back in the bathtub scrubbing

myself. “But, I’m doing this for my benefit as well as yours. Old fish and unbathed

nephews become unbearable after a time.” The bathroom door opened as my aunt

brought in a pan of water to rinse my hair. We struggled, pushed, pulled and strained

until, finally, I was out of the tub and into my wheel chair.

I stayed at my aunt and uncle’s house for three weeks, commuting to school from

their place. The pain, I thought, would never go away. The Lord has ways of

confronting us. I was forced to think. I couldn’t sleep at night. I lay awake pondering

my plight. Martha never had liked my family. I knew that. And, she didn’t have much

to do with my God. I knew that. Her behavior, and her lack of concern for me after the

accident, was a fact I could not ignore. It was at that time that I released my will anew

to the Lord. Peace flooded over me when I made the decision to tell Martha that I

couldn’t be involved with her anymore. The Lord began to fill my spirit with such a

sense of awesome peace. Life goes on.

74

Chapter 10

Good Friends--Good Memories--Good Wine!

I had not tasted alcohol at home--all my family were teetotalers. My newfound

friends in Denver would, for the most part, drink alcohol only occasionally. Andy, my

roommate, was on a strict diet trying to battle his weight, so he kept the refrigerator

stocked with “light” beer. One evening, he and his aide, Ben, were drinking from his

supply. “Ed, have a cool one with us.” Ben’s voice echoed, “Yeah, Ed, have one with

us.” “I don’t care for beer,” I said, not wanting to say that I had never even tasted beer.

“Oh, come on, Ed, be a sport,” Ben quipped, as he stepped to the refrigerator and

pulled out a bottle. Breaking the seal, and placing it in my hand, he said “Do you want

a straw with that, Ed, or can you drink it like a man?” Andy laughed, “Drinking beer

with a sissy stick.”

I did not want to feel left out or offend them by refusing their offer, so,

spinelessly, I began to drink. It was bitter at first, but when I had finished the bottle, I

felt a warm sensation enveloping me and I felt relaxed. The first sip was the hardest--

after that it became easier to imbibe.

“You were a priest?” I said, my mouth gaping open as I looked at Ralph. “Yes, I

don’t want a lot of people to know, especially at school,” he said, as he looked at me

from behind the steering wheel of his car. He had been my friend since that first day on

campus and now, while I was recuperating from my wreck, he was driving me to

school every morning. “Did you quit the priesthood because of Kate?” I asked. “No, I

quit before I met her. The Church wasn’t where I was, that’s all, so I left. I felt I could

do more to help the poor through social work.” Ralph reeked with compassion. I had

sensed that ever since the day we met.

“You haven’t left your faith, have you, Ralph?” I was suddenly reminded of

another man I knew who was a minister in our class and had recently divulged his

atheistic philosophy to me. That man had bluntly stated, “My church doesn’t know it,

but I don’t believe in God. I began to disbelieve in Seminary.” At which point, I then

stammered, “But, uh, well . . .,” trying to collect my thoughts, “Why do you preach--

what do you preach?” “It’s a good career,” he said, “and I preach the importance of--

well, I preach a lot of things. There’s a lot in the world that needs to be corrected, and

I’m a humanist. I address those problems. That is why I want to get a degree — so I

75

can leave the ministry.” Surely, I thought, Ralph could not be trying to tell me the same

thing!

Ralph’s voice cut across my musings, “My faith in God is stronger than ever, I

couldn’t cope if I didn’t believe that God loves me,” he said.

Those days literally flew by on jet-like wings. “I can’t believe it,” I said to Ralph

the last morning of spring quarter. “It’s over. This year’s over and we survived. I’ll see

you in the fall, I hope?” “Maybe sooner,” he said, “Kate and I plan to visit you this

summer while you are home!”

The farm welcomed me back that summer with its familiar green, rolling fields

and rows of fruit trees, as I sat back in my power chair and traversed the pathways

which wove in and out of the spacious fields and orchards. Pulling the chair to a stop at

the northern ridge of the farm, I dropped my right hand to switch off the motor. Then,

leaning back, I savored the sunshine and began to think. I helped plant some of those

trees--it seemed like a lifetime ago. How did it feel to walk back then? I couldn’t

remember. I visualized my brother and I running across the field. Was that me? Was I

really that agile at one time? It had been so many years ago.

I turned the power on and spun my chair around, backed up, and pushed the

gear forward. The whir of the motor rose in my ears as the wheels remained stationary.

I jiggled the gear shift, but the chair still sat there. “Oh, no,” I cried aloud, “What the

heck is going on?” I leaned over and looked down at the soft ground behind me.

“Stuck again,” I thought disgustedly. “How could I do that!” I had two choices: sit

here and wait and wait and wait, or crawl to the house--500 feet away. I had crawled

before, but not that far. I began to shout, hoping someone would hear me. I gave up.

Reaching down, I unlatched the footrest and slid out onto the ground. I hadn’t gotten

very far when I heard the sound of the tractor. It seemed closer than before. I rolled

over and looked up and saw that it was coming toward me. As my dad drove the

tractor up beside me, he turned off the motor and said, “What on earth is going on,

Ed?” I explained what I had done. “I thought you were smarter than that,” he said,

“Don’t you know the dirt is soft out here?” He then jumped down from the tractor,

pulled my chair out of the dirt, and set me back up in the chair. I felt very sheepish and

not at all like a wise and learned college scholar home on summer vacation!

Later that summer, I was overjoyed when my friends, Ralph and Kate, appeared

for their long-awaited visit. My parents graciously welcomed them into our home. “It

76

is almost uncanny,” I thought, “when old friends meet it is almost as if time and

distance has never separated them.” We talked non-stop. Kate’s Scottish accent was

softly melodic--music to my ears. I hope you brought your guitar, Kate.” “Of course, I

wouldn’t turn down a request for music!” I learned that she had been part of a singing

group in Scotland that had recorded three albums. Ralph’s voice harmonized with

Kate’s on the duets. Scottish folk songs filled the air.

Their visit flew by far too fast. As they got into the car to leave for Denver, Ralph

gripped my hand and said, “Well, Chief, we’ll see you back in Denver this fall.” Kate

said, with a grin as she tapped my shoulder, “That’s right, and thank you for having

us.” She turned to hug my mom and shook my dad’s hand before getting into the car.

The rest of the summer dissipated in the long harvest days. Our summer work

crew wielded the ladders, sacks and baskets of fruit with an age-old skill. I would

spend part of every day in the orchard watching the workers and listening to them as

they talked, laughed, cursed and sang. Invariably, I would find myself at the end of

those long summer days sitting at my favorite location on our farm--the bluff

overlooking the Colorado River meandering through the fertile valley below.

Then, all too soon, the summer had gone and I was once again in the city in the

middle of a winter snowstorm. “Winter in Denver,” Ralph said, “has got to be the

worst place on earth,” as he skillfully maneuvered my wheelchair through the high

snowdrifts which covered the campus sidewalks. “At least they didn’t close school this

time; we’re not snowed in.” My mind slipped back to the day a month ago when the

snow fell and fell--stacking up in the streets below my apartment. “It’s beautiful,” I

thought, as I leaned against the balcony peering over to look at the streets below. The

snow had piled up overnight, leaving the city paralyzed the next morning. I couldn’t

believe what I was seeing--“The snow must be two feet deep!” I heard the phone

ringing. Seconds later, Ralph’s voice crackled over the wire. “Ed, I’m snowed in. I

can’t get out of my driveway, and I just heard on the news report that all of the schools

are closed.” I tried to quell the panic that was beginning to rise inside me, and said

“That’s all right, Ralph, I’ll be fine.” As I placed the telephone back on the receiver, I

thought, “No breakfast for you today, old boy.” Ralph always fixed breakfast for me on

the days we went to school. The phone rang again. It was my aunt, wanting to know if

I would be all right since everyone was snowed in. “Yes,” I said, “I’ll be fine.” My aunt

and uncle were always there to check on me and I felt secure in their vigilance.

Sometimes, I resented their concern, feeling smothered at times, but I didn’t express this

feeling to them until much later. I was pretty good, or pretty bad, about keeping my

77

feelings to myself. Was it fear of rejection, or a lack of self-confidence? I didn’t bother to

question it back then, and I ignored the challenges of my professors and well-meaning

friends to face this in myself. Perhaps I was not ready to confront it at that time. I was a

master at masking my feelings. Shifting my chair into reverse, I backed into my kitchen

and rolled to the sink. Reaching for the faucet, I grabbed the cup on the counter. “At

least I can survive,” I thought. “Funny, though, it doesn’t seem that important.” I

began to reflect on the past one-and-a-half years. I had grown. Things didn’t bother me

the way they used to. “Had I hardened, or adjusted softly?” I wondered. I thought

back to my first week with my roommate--the night his aide didn’t come to put him to

bed and I didn’t know how to help. The struggles I had with that. And, the times I was

stranded on downtown street corners by indifferent bus drivers who didn’t care if I got

on or not. And, the coldness of some people in the city, and the professional distance

held by agency people and school personnel. I found myself asking, “Doesn’t anyone

care at all?” I knew there were those who did, and they demonstrated it to me daily,

but--they weren’t here right now and I was crushed by the experience.

I wheeled out onto my twelfth-story balcony and looked again at the snow-

covered streets below. It was hauntingly quiet that morning because there was no

movement. I lingered there, enjoying the isolation and the solitude. I began to feel

exhilarated--as if I had gained a great victory. In a way, I had. I could enjoy the day

alone. Later that morning, I ventured out into the icy streets. Traffic was nil, and the

winter day had suddenly turned warm. The motor on my power chair hummed into

life as I shifted into forward. The buildings passed by as I sailed smoothly down the

snow-clad streets. Cautiously, I steered clear of the curb’s edge. I recalled other times,

on other days before I had learned to be cautious about the curbs. I felt some

satisfaction in how I had learned to become self-reliant.

Back in my apartment later that day, Lisa called. “Hi, sweety, this is Lisa,” her

voice rang over the phone. “How ya doin’, Lisa?” I squealed, “Where have you been all

my life?” “Just waiting for you,” she giggled. “Are you going to make it over here

tonight?” I asked. “That’s why I called,” she said. I thought, “Oh, no, she can’t make

it!” She went on, “I wondered if I could come earlier than usual. It’s going to be cold

tonight, and I want to be home by the fire snuggled next to my honey.” In my relief, I

joked, “There you go again, breaking my heart just like a fickle female!”

As I replaced the receiver, I sat back and reflected on my association with Lisa. I

had been working at my internship at the agency in Denver when I saw her walk into

the room. Her long, blonde hair hung straight past her shoulders. “Hi,” she said, “Are

78

you new here?” Looking up, I said, “You might say that, I’m interning here this year.”

“Oh, then you’re the one who gets stuck with all the dirty work,” she laughed. “I’m a

home health aide, and I’ve worked with the agency for almost a year now,” she said.

Sometimes, there are people to whom I feel instantly drawn. Lisa was one of

those people. A month later, she appeared at my apartment door. “I’m your aide this

morning,” she said. We developed a deep friendship from that day forward. I felt

relaxed with her easygoing, matter-of-fact manner and, besides, she laughed at my

jokes. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said as she left that morning, “You are on my schedule

again this evening.” We talked about everything, it seemed--the hours we were

together. Sometimes, when her work was done, she stayed just to visit with me past her

scheduled time. I felt a bond growing between us. I was aware of Lisa’s involvement in

a relationship, but I’d never met the person.

One evening, I said “Some day let’s go fishing, Lisa.” Enthusiastically, she said,

“Yeah,let’s do that.” The next morning, Lisa was at my apartment again. As I was

eating breakfast, dipping my spoon into my oatmeal, I said, “By the way, about that

fishing trip, Lisa. I want you to bring your boyfriend along with us.” After a long

pause, she said, “Ed, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I gave her a quizzical look, and said

“But, I thought you were involved with someone,” as I lifted the spoon of oatmeal to

my mouth. “Ed, there is something you don’t know about me. I’m gay.” The spoon

hung suspended in midair as I gaped at her. She broke into gales of laughter. “If you

could see the look on your face!” she chortled, “You are so funny!” “Funny, maybe.

Gay? No,” I said. Then, she really laughed. Regaining her composure at last, she said,

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but it just never came up before. How do

you feel about me being gay?” “Well, at least I didn’t ask you to marry me,” I smiled

wryly. She said, “Ed, you are a real sweet guy, and if I married any man, it would

probably be you!”

There was a common spirit of sorts between Lisa and me. She was a gifted

writer. She loved music and art. Our friendship continued even though we were

opposites in many ways. She came to me with personal problems many times. But, that

was not anything new--many people did that. I felt honored that people trusted me

with their deepest feelings. I told myself that I’d picked the right profession because I

was a natural in listening to people and relating to others in need.

The school year sped by, and now it was late spring. The snows had melted,

giving way to a flood tide of green splendor. “Less than a month left of school,” Ralph

79

chortled, as he stepped into my apartment that early morning. “And, I’m leaving

Denver as soon as I can. I don’t know how it will be in Caribou, Maine, but it can’t be as

cold as this city!” Ralph had just secured a job in a mental health agency and I was just

as happy for him as he was for me when he heard my news. “I’m going to Grand

Junction to intern in a rehabilitation center, Ralph,” I said. “Good,” he said, “You’ll get

to go back home. I’m sure your folks will be glad to have you back.” “Well, Ralph, I’m

not moving back home with my parents. Since I’ve been on my own now for the past

two years, I think I like having my own apartment and being independent,” I said. I

thought back to the tremendous struggle I’d had in the beginning learning to live alone,

and adjusting to living with a roommate, and getting around in the city. But, I had

survived quite well, thank you.

It was nearly 10:30 at night when Gary, Ernie and I decided to take a jaunt

downtown. It was springtime and we were feeling adventurous. We must have been a

sight to see--Gary leading the way in his upright power chair, Ernie in his reclining

power chair and me behind in close pursuit!

“Slow down, Ernie!” I cried, “I can’t keep up with you!” “I’m in slow gear,” he

yelled over his shoulder, but he stopped to wait for me. Ernie had started to school that

year in the downtown campus, majoring in photography. “It’s been a long time,” he

told me, as he leaned back in his chair. I watched a smile curl around his white teeth--

made whiter by the glow of his black face. Ours was a friendship that had grown

gradually, but seemed like it had always been there. He volunteered in the agency were

I had interned. We got to know each other well. As I caught up to him that warm

spring evening, he said, “You better get that chair fixed. It doesn’t go very fast.” “What

can I say, Ernie, it’s a slow chair,” I replied.

Winding around the streets of downtown Denver, an occasional car would speed

by. Traffic was not very heavy at that time of night, and we reached our destination at

last--the Waylayer’s Nightclub. Gary quipped, “You go in there, and they will waylay

you.”

The bar was smoke-filled and dark. The music was loud. We wound our way

through the bar toward the stage. On the stage, two girls were dancing. When one of

the girls spied Gary, she said, “Hi, Gary, how ya doin’?” It was obvious to me that Gary

was a frequent visitor to this establishment. Gary’s voice, in typical cerebral palsy

fashion slurred back, “Pretty good for an Alabama cowboy!” He always wore cowboy

boots, levis, and a large cowboy hat. Of course, he loved country music.

80

The music in the bar, however, was far from country. The loud rock ‘n roll

rhythm hammered out sensuously. The girls swayed provocatively and, as they did so,

they removed their clothing piece by piece. I hadn’t been so speechless since I was ten

years old! A waitress appeared beside us to take our drink orders. Ernie ordered first,

“I’ll have a beer,” he said huskily, his soft voice tempered by his jive-talking style of

delivery. Gary ordered “the usual.” Apparently, the waitress knew him well. I sat

there, smugly and self-righteously, ordering a ginger ale. Thinking to myself, “Being

here in this bar won’t be so bad if I don’t drink alcohol.” I had never tasted alcohol

before I moved to Denver. I don’t know why I started to drink it even then. The first

evening my roommate Andy and his aide, Ben, coaxed me into having a cool one with

them, I thought, “It can’t hurt.” I didn’t even like the taste of it at first, but the next one

didn’t seem to taste so bad. Then, another time, later, someone offered me a glass of

wine in a restaurant. One glass won’t hurt me, I thought.

Then, there was the time when some buddies of mine went out for a drinking

and eating binge and I went with them. I was in good company. The food was great,

and the wine flowed. My friend, Scott, sat across from me talking about life, literature

and love. Ernie was to my right, and Kathy was on my left and we were having a high

time of it. “A little more wine, please,” I said, “Scott, will you do the honors because

you pour so well. You are a good, poor man because you can pour so well.” I was

beginning to feel light-headed or even empty-headed. Later, I knew that I was feeling

no pain as I left the restaurant and wound my way through 18th Street and wove a path

onto 19th Street--careening back toward my apartment. Suddenly, I felt a jolt, a twist,

and a turn. Then, I was off the sidewalk, stuck in the gutter grating. I was about to fall

out of my chair when a car stopped abruptly right in front of me and out stepped an

older lady. She said, “It looks like you need some help.” “Yes, I do,” I said, but I was

thinking “you can’t help me.” My chair weighed over 200 pounds and I guessed she

didn’t weigh one hundred pounds, soaking wet. To my amazement, she was behind

my chair before I realized what was going on. Grabbing it, she said “Move your gear

shift forward.” I obeyed her command and, somehow, the chair lurched forward and

out of the gutter. “Thanks,” I mumbled, embarrassed, because I should have been

paying attention to where I was going. She disappeared into her car and sped off before

I could utter another word.

Now, this night in the bar, I had felt smug as I sipped my ginger ale. “I don’t

have to drink alcohol,” I told myself. I didn’t ask myself the question “So, why do I?”

The girls danced across the stage as the music grew louder and louder. I asked Ernie,

“Do you think they enjoy their work? Do you think they’re fulfilled?” Ernie cracked,

81

“Oh, yeah! They’re fulfilled just right!” We must have sat there for a couple of hours or

more. As the girls ran off the stage for another intermission, we left the bar. There we

were, at two o’clock in the morning, in the back alleys of downtown Denver. Gary had

shot out of sight and Ernie was getting ahead of me. “Wait for me,” I shouted. “I could

get killed in this place!” Ernie laughed as he slowed down his chair. The spring late-

night air in Denver seemed soft and warm. A sense of euphoria came over me as I

wound my way up the sidewalks and down the streets. I would soon be home, I

thought, to finish the last part of my Master’s program--the required one-year

internship in my field of social work. I would be serving my internship at the federal

hospital in my home town. Once that was out of the way, I could launch a career.

Nothing could go wrong now, I told myself . . .

Part III

90

Chapter 11

The Intern

I leaned back in my chair surveying the office--my office. This was my first

Monday morning at the federal hospital. My supervisor, Fred, was sitting across from

me. “Are you ready to take the grand tour?” he asked enthusiastically. I shifted my

chair into gear as we left the office, turning the corner into the large waiting room, out

the door, down the ramp, and onto the sidewalk. We talked. Rather, Fred talked and I

asked questions. “Here we are at Unit Six. We’ll stop here first. This is our alcoholic

treatment center,” he informed me, as we wound our way up the ramp to the front

door. “Can you handle the door?” he asked. “I think so,” I said, as I grasped the handle

and pulled the door open. I released the door, grabbing my gearshift, just as the door

swung shut. “Wait,” I said, as I repositioned my chair, and opened the door again.

Sticking out my right foot, catching the door with it, then grasping the gear shift, I

sailed into the room. “Very good,” Fred said, “if you can do that with the next door,

you’ll have it made.”

Inside the room, Fred began to introduce the new intern to the old staff. The 16-

bed facility was a six week in-patient treatment center for acute alcohol/drug addiction

and it also housed four staff offices. The patients were sitting by the windows, some

smoking, some standing by the pool table shooting eightball. Mike, the one in charge of

the unit, talked to me in his office explaining the program.

“You will be spending some time in this unit, and you’ll learn about it as you

go.” I heard him say “Hi, Bea,” and I turned and saw a large woman looming in the

doorway. “Bea, this is our new intern,” he said. She stepped inside and said, “Hi, I’ve

heard about you already. I’m the day nurse on this unit. I work with the patients in a

group, also.” Fred joked with Bea and I sensed a camaraderie that was refreshing to

me. “Well, Ed, we need to be on our way--there’s a lot more to see besides Unit Six.

Mike and Bea think this is the only unit in the hospital,” he laughed as he rose to leave

the room.

We entered the main hospital structure, turning left to the elevator. He bustled

inside and pushed the third-floor button. Seconds later, we were in a wide, spacious

hall and just around the corner was the nurses’ station. Introductions were repeated

and then we entered an office near the station. Two men sat engrossed in conversation,

91

but they turned toward us as we entered the room. Doctor Parde rose and reached a

big beefy hand in my direction. I reached to shake his hand and he said, “So, you’re the

new one on the block.” Doctor Hughes, the psychologist, said, “Well, Ed, welcome

aboard. I hope you will enjoy us--at least me,” as he laughed broadly. Doctor Parde

quipped, “If Ed enjoys you, I’m going to be worried about him.” About that time, a

lady entered the room and said “What’s going on in here? It can’t be good with only

men present.” Fred turned toward her and said, “This is our new intern, Ed Harris. Ed,

this is Laurie Jenkins.” She smiled as she grasped my hand and said, “Good to meet

you.”

“She is part of the reason you’re here, Ed.” “That’s right,” she said, “I was at a

meeting at D. U. last spring and they told me about you needing an intern position for

your Master’s Degree. Since Fred didn’t have anything to do anyway, I thought we

could put him to work as your supervisor.” Fred snorted, “I wish that was true,

Laurie.” She laughed.

Later, as we left the office, Fred explained to me: “Third floor is where the psych

patients are treated in the hospital. We have about 35 psych patients in-house most of

the time. You will be seeing a lot of them. Here’s another guy you’ll be seeing a lot of,

Ed.” I saw a tall, lanky man walking toward us. “Barry, are you in a hurry?” Fred

asked, stopping him in the hallway. “What kind of question is that?” the man answered

with a wide grin. “I’m just the Chief around here. I don’t do anything.” “I’ve been

wanting to talk to you about that,” Fred replied. “We need to get you involved with

something besides walking around looking dignified and busy. First, though, meet Ed--

Ed, meet Doctor Simmons.” He shook my hand vigorously and boomed another

“Welcome!” The day continued, touring the facility.

“Here’s the day room,” Fred said as he opened the door. “You’ll be going to

rounds here tomorrow morning. We also have group here in this room. Doctor

Hughes and Laurie hold group here in the mornings after rounds. You will be here

with group in the afternoons twice a week. In that time slot, we deal with depression.”

Moments later, we stopped on the second floor. “I want you to meet Cynthia, Don and

Madge. Laurie shares office space with them.” “Why is that?” I asked, “It seems to me

it would be better to have the staff working out of the same building.” I was thinking

“That ought to impress him. Here I am on the first day, making these great

suggestions.” I felt so important and smug! He replied, rather cooly, “We do different

things in our work as you will see, and we function better this way.” “Uh oh,” I

92

thought, “so much for my idea. Next time, I’ll wait for the facts before I offer an

opinion.”

Madge sat at the desk typing. As we entered the room, she looked up and

introductions were repeated. Then, a blond-haired lady appeared from a side room in

the office. “Hi, Cynthia, meet Ed,” and so it went. We sat in her office, visiting briefly.

She was the newest staff social worker. I thought, “Four social workers, two

psychologists, one pathologist, three psychiatric nurses--this place must be in pretty

good shape,” as we left their office and made our way back to “home base” which Fred

called his office complex. We began to discuss how I would be involved with the

hospital. He asked me, “Are the grounds okay with your chair? We know the grounds

are designed for wheelchairs for the patients, but we have never had one on staff in that

situation before.” That should have been my first clue that my disability was creating a

whole new arena for them, but I didn’t pick up on it just then. “The grounds look okay,

but I can’t get through the bathroom door in this office in my power chair.” He

hesitated, and then asked “How can you make this work?” “Well,” I replied, widening

the door would be the best thing, but I won’t be here forever and the expense of doing

that would be too great.” I looked at my manual chair parked in the corner of the room,

and pointed at it, “That will fit the bathroom door perfectly. I can transfer into it

without any problem. Maybe installing a grab bar inside the bathroom would work.”

He went on to say, “You will need someone to read for you, and someone to

write and transcribe for you. I think that I know a person we can ask to do that.” He

placed a telephone call that afternoon, and the next day I met Margie Murphy. Margie

was a retired Navy secretary, “75 years old, this year,” she said with a voice sparkling

with an Irish accent. “I love to work,” she said, “I’m a volunteer now for the hospital. I

also work with hospice and the Hilltop Hospital. I’m busy with my volunteering,

there’s just so much that needs to be done everywhere I look.” Our work began in

earnest the next day.

Fred told me, “Margie has clearance to the case files. Start with these first--she

can read them to you.” He turned to Margie and said, “Some of these cases may be

familiar to you, I’m sure you’ve seen some of these patients on the floors.” As she read,

the cases began to unfold before me and I concentrated--trying to commit to memory as

much information as possible about each patient

I was assigned to meet my first patient, Nadine Swenson, this week. As Margie

read her case file to me, Nadine’s life began to unfold. Diagnosed schizophrenia,

93

repeated hospitalizations--oh yes, and uncooperative with the staff. I mused silently,

“no problem.” I telephoned the psych floor nursing station after retrieving the number

from my cassette player where Margie had recorded all the telephone numbers I would

need. . “Would you please send Nadine Swenson to Building Three at one o’clock this

afternoon?” I said into the phone. At forty-five minutes after one o’clock, I went

looking for Nadine. Fred had said, “She’s a hard egg to crack--you will have an

interesting time working with her.”

I found Nadine sitting in her room on the third floor. “Who are you and what do

you want?” she spat the words vehemently. I introduced myself, told her who I was,

and what I wanted. After she told me where to go and to leave her alone, I hesitated,

wondering what to do next. I had never encountered anyone so viciously hostile. I

thought I was a fairly nice person--apparently, Nadine didn’t share my sentiments.

Then, it hit me--how she must feel--someone strange intruding on her space. I said, as

gently as I could, “You must think it is awful of me to come in here like this, but, you

see, I’m a student here and I don’t know what I’m doing yet. Can you help me?” Her

manner melted slightly. Still suspicious, she said, “What do you mean?” I sensed the

ice was melting. “You know how students are, Nadine, sometimes they’re out in left

field--sometimes not even in the ball park. Do you know Fred Albers?” I queried.

“Yes,” she said, “and I don’t like him.” “Well, there you are! Now you know what I

have to put up with--he’s my supervisor,” I said, trying to find a common ground.

“Tell me what goes on in this place? I’d like to know,” I asked her. “They make

you go to group and sit,” she said, “and they bother you a lot. You have to eat, and go

here or go there, and I hate it,” she stated. “This must be an awful place,” I answered,

“no wonder you don’t like it here.” I was trying to build any kind of rapport that I

could. I knew that the police had rescued her from an attempted suicide. She was a

hardcore alcoholic and her only son had been killed in Korea. Did this lady have pain?

Yes, and every reason to be unresponsive to me--but, here she was, relating to me as

one human being to another. I would like to say that I helped her, that our rapport

continued, but it did not. The next day, and the next, she shut me out repeatedly. Fred

said to me, “Don’t feel bad, she shuts everyone out.”

My patient load continued to grow. They weren’t all difficult. Frank, for

instance, was a boisterous, jolly fellow--at least on the surface. I learned later that he

was hiding a multitude of pain. I liked him instantly. He was a large man, middle-

aged, and eager to please. I first met him during patient rounds, and later began to

work with him one-on-one. “I’m manic-depressive,” he said, “up one day and down

94

the next--it’s crazy. Sometimes I feel so low I could crawl under a snake’s belly with a

top hat!” I laughed at his wit. He talked about his sons “who don’t care a whit about

the old man anymore.” His voice grew husky as he talked about them. I said, “It

sounds like you care about them very much. Tell me about them.” I learned that one

son worked in a funeral home in Denver. “I paid for his education, set him up in

business, and now he won’t even give me a phone call. The other one is in Missouri.

He’s a lawyer. He’s the one that cares the most about his old man!”

I discussed Frank’s case with Fred at our next meeting. He said, “Frank probably

feels guilty about his sons. I suspect he feels he failed as a father. Guilt, shame, and

denial are part of the territory an alcoholic covers. But, Ed, I want to tell you something

about Frank--he’s a first-class con artist. He’ll tell you that he hasn’t had a drink in

years, but he’ll have a bottle hidden somewhere on the grounds. Some of these guys

are so far gone, we can’t even let them in the commissary because they’ll buy aftershave

lotion to drink--anything for a high.”

Frank had been part of group therapy. It seemed as though there was a group

for almost everything at the hospital. The two groups that most intrigued me were the

depression group and the schizophrenic group. At first, I thought it was a great idea

putting together six to ten depressed men in a room for an hour twice each week in

order to talk about their depression. The longer I saw this group in action, the more I

began to question the reasoning behind it. Any group has talkers and silencers. The

talkers would verbalize in order to mesh their feelings while the silent ones remained

withdrawn. I learned to draw out the silencers while subduing the talkers, but it was

still not the best arrangement, in my opinion.

The schizophrenic group proved to be the most challenging for me. Five to ten

of these patients in one room, each with his own agenda, none of whom were oriented

as to time or space. I was introduced to this group by video tape. Fred sat at my side

and held a running commentary on each patient. Because of my limited vision, Fred

provided a physical description as well as his clinical observations for each patient.

“That one is an intriguing guy. His name is Roy. He’s a victim of drug-induced

schizophrenia. He overdosed while in the service--now he’s somewhere in outer space.

You will be seeing him in group next week. He always shows up. And, this is Ray--

sometimes he is more in touch with reality than Roy. Here’s Joe--he has a job here in

town as a night watchman. He does all right as long as he is on medication, but when

he forgets to take it--watch out! One night he was sitting at home alone, not on his

medication, and saw someone breaking through the walls. He grabbed his loaded

95

shotgun and blasted away. Luckily, no one else was in the room. These men have been

the core of our schizophrenia group for the past three or four years.”

The following Wednesday, the group assembled. Fred had instructed me to wait

outside until everyone else had come into the room. “I want to tell them about you first

so they will know you are coming. They don’t handle surprises well.” I waited in the

hallway for Fred’s call. He stepped to the door and said, “O.K., Ed, you’re on.” I

shifted my wheel chair into motion and rolled into the room. Swinging the chair

around to the table, I parked it. “Hi, I’m Ed.” I watched the men sitting around the

table. They all stared blankly at me.

Fred launched into the session with subdued excitement, trying to build a spirit

of comradery into the room. “How’s it going this week? Roy, have you been

anywhere this week?” Roy replied in a deep monotone voice, “No.” Then he suddenly

broke into a disjointed tale about going to Nashville and setting up a recording session

with Loretta Lynn this week, but he had to be very cautious about interplanetary forces

that were in motion. He continued rambling in this highly-agitated state when,

suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence and sat silently, staring at his hands. Fred

turned to other patients and asked questions of each of them before turning back to

Roy. Fred and I both sensed Roy’s agitation building and Fred asked, “Roy, how do

you feel right now, are you nervous?” “Yes, I’m nervous. I feel really dangerous. I just

don’t feel like myself,” Roy spurted excitedly. Fred zeroed in on the problem

immediately. “Have you had your injection this week, Roy?” Roy hesitated, and then

said “That must be it. I need my shot!” Fred said, gently, “We’ll be finished here in

about thirty minutes, take a deep breath and relax, then I’ll send you over to third floor

and you can get a shot.” This seemed to calm Roy and he settled back into his trance.

After the session, I couldn’t wait to wheel into Fred’s office to rehash everything

and ask questions about his control of the group. We talked for over an hour that day.

Fred said, “By the way, Ed, I want to video tape you in a session. I have in mind a guy

from the Alcoholic Recovery Unit. I’ll arrange it for some day next week. I think you’ll

do well.” Fred leaned back in his office chair and lit a cigarette. I watched as he blew

rings of smoke toward the ceiling. As the smoke rings curled, danced and disappeared,

he said “I know something about alcoholics, Ed, I am one.” I started suddenly in my

chair. He just grinned and said, “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think it was

relevant.” “Are there any other alcoholics on staff?” I tactlessly blurted out. He

laughed, “No, so far as I know, I’m the only one. I’ve been in ‘AA’ for some time--‘AA’

works wonders.” He went on to tell me about it. “It started in the military--where

96

else?” he said with a wry grin. He told me about his drinking bouts. I had heard

similar accounts before. I had read the big “AA” book along with the twelve steps of

the program. I said, “You must know my friend Abe.” He said, “Yes,” as his face lit up.

“Everyone knows him.” I thought of the man I had known for more than twenty years,

his sunglass-covered blind eyes and his ever-present guide dog by his side. Abe was 64

years old when he entered college. He went on to get his license in drug counseling.

“Isn’t he remarkable?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Yes, he is. By the

way, he works here part-time in the Alcoholic Recovery Unit.” “I know,” I said, “I’ve

seen him there.” Fred said the same thing that I had heard Abe say, “Alcohol is a

mysterious and baffling disease. Alcoholism has no favorites--it can sneak up on

anyone.

I backed out of Fred’s office and wheeled into my office. I was doing well, I

thought, feeling a sense of elation. Working at the federal hospital had been a thrilling

and insightful experience for me--I was achieving a goal and realizing a dream. I’d been

there almost two months now, and my routine was established. Whenever I needed to

review a patient file, I telephoned Marge Murphy. She was in my office once or twice a

week, reviewing patient files with me. Reviewing schizophrenic patients’ files and the

ARU patients’ files held no small fascination for me. My days flew by in a whirlwind of

activity.

As the summer wore on, I grew more confident in my position as intern--until

one day when Laurie called me into her office said, “Ed, now that you have familiarized

yourself with our program, I want to have you start doing some of the real duties

necessary for your internship. I have an assignment for you. I want you to do intake on

a new admission. He’s an older man who is chronically depressed. He’s had repeated

shock therapy.” I asked her, “Why does the hospital place so much emphasis on shock

therapy? At the university, shock therapy was considered an anathema.” She replied,

“That is not true.” “But, the professors at the university . . .” She broke into my mid-

sentence with “The professors in universities don’t realize what is going on in the real

world nor do they always care. I would suggest that you hold back your opinions until

you are in full possession of all of the facts, Ed!” I sensed an evaluation had just been

made and that I was in a trap of my own making. I stuttered and stammered--then I

stopped searching for words that wouldn’t come. So, I said, “Well, I guess I need to

rethink that one.” She said, “Yes, I guess you do.” She assigned me to do the patient

intake interview, and I left her office feeling shoe string high. I sensed that things were

beginning to change in my internship status and I was not sure why.

97

“Dorothy, is the video ready yet?” I asked, as I wound my way back to her desk.

“Yes, Ed.” “Good, Carl will be here any minute. Would you please go turn on the

tape?” She rose from her desk and I followed her into the wide, spacious office as she

fumbled with the buttons on the machine. I heard the motor kick on as she said,

“You’re on, Ed.” I turned to the camera and waved, “Hi, there. Allow me to introduce

myself. I’m Shakespeare. To be or not to be--or is it, to do or not to do?” Enough

clowning around. I made a face at the camera and turned toward the door. A moment

later, my patient Carl walked into the room. I pointed to the chair next to the table and

said, “Have a seat, Carl. Hope you don’t mind the video?” “No,” he grunted. The

interview began. I was to do a social history on this man. We talked and talked. The

hour had soon passed. I gathered his family background, place of origin, and drinking

history. I learned a great deal about the man. I had seen him before in group. I

couldn’t wait to review the video the next day with Fred. I thought I had done a great

job on the interview. I left the “studio,” as I called it, with a great feeling of self-

satisfaction.

Now, I was in Fred’s office and he was saying, “Laurie and I saw the video last

night, Ed.” “Oh,” I said, “that’s good.” I didn’t know what else to say. I thought we

were going to see it together--he and I--but, no matter, I told myself. I was anxious to

hear his comments. The film had been well done, I thought, until his remarks began to

fall upon my ears.

“Your eye contact was not as good as it could have been, Ed, and your line of

questioning seems to ramble. You didn’t get to the point.” One by one, he began to

burst my bubble. He pointed out error after error. Then he said, “But, your rapport

was good. He followed you well.” By then, I felt deflated and discouraged.

As I left his office, I began to silently berate myself. “Wait a minute. Do you feel

good about the interview? Yes,” I said, answering myself out loud. “Well, isn’t that

good?” “Of course it is,” I encouraged myself. “He didn’t say it was all bad,” I mused

as my monologue continued. I soon felt better, but realized that I needed to make

improvements. There was a lot of room for change. Fred and Laurie realized it, also.

They began to question me intensely now. “Ed, how would you handle this situation if

. . . or, what do you think about that patient? Do you think you handled that interview

well?” Or, “By the way, why didn’t you get this turned in on time?” I began to feel

stress and pressure about what was expected of me. It began to mount and I was in a

state of confusion much of the time. My coping skills were faltering and I was

forgetting to do important things. Was I really where I needed to be in making this

98

internship a success? One day, I voiced my doubts to Marge. “Of course you are, Ed,

you’re doing just fine,” she replied. “But, Fred and Laurie are beginning to imply

otherwise,” I said. Margie hesitated for a moment, and then she said “Ed, listen to what

I have to say. You need to finish this course and get your degree, but I think there are

areas in this line of work that would be very difficult for you to manage on your own.

You know that I am always here to help you with the reading, but you won’t always be

able to count on having that kind of help available when you need it. You are so good

with people, and you really care about people. I think you should consider going into

the ministry. You would be such a good minister.” These words echoed in my mind.

I’d heard them before. “I couldn’t handle a pulpit-pounding position with all the

ramifications of church administration,” I told her. “You don’t have to be in a pulpit. A

minister can do lots of things. You need to study for the work,” she declared

emphatically.

“Well, I’ll think about it. But, first, I want to finish this internship and get my

degree. Then, I’ll go on and do something else.” I wanted the Master’s Degree; I

needed the Master’s Degree. Here I was--disabled. I couldn’t work at just any job, I

told myself. I needed a job that I could handle. I could handle counseling. I was a

good counselor, everyone told me that. I believed it. Even the patients told me I was

good counselor and that affirmed me in my goals. “Sure, Ed,” I told myself, “You can

handle the counseling, but can you handle everything that goes with it? Maybe, Margie

had a point.”

Fred and Laurie continued to question me more and more about what it took to

get the job done. “Ed, when you finish your degree, what then? How are you going to

manage the paperwork? How are you going to get the patient files read? How are you

going to keep their files continually updated with their progress notes? How are you

going to review group-session videos without help? It went on and on. “With a

secretary,” I said. “I know I can’t work without a secretary,” I replied. “Ed, your

physical disabilities require more help than just secretarial assistance. You need

someone available to you on a full-time basis to read your patient files, make file

updates, set up the video equipment--all of that requires more assistance than the duties

that are in a secretary’s job description. We were fortunate to be able to use Margie for

this assistance, but she is an unpaid volunteer. There are no funds in the budget to hire

a full-time assistant to help you. I suspect that other agencies would have the same

problem.” I was beginning to feel sick. “I want this degree, Fred. I need this degree!”

99

Then, Fred stood with his left foot on the chair, his elbow down on his knee. The

fingers of his right hand drummed on the desk in front of me. He shifted his weight,

and breathed a heavy sigh as he said “Ed, I can’t give you a passing grade for this

course.” “What!?” I couldn’t believe what I had heard. He repeated himself.

“I know I’ve had some struggles, but I’m doing better, aren’t I? “That’s not the

point, Ed, I don’t think you are able to do the work--unaided--that is necessary to pass

this internship.” My head swam; my stomach churned. “Surely he is testing me,” I

thought, “I’ll handle this test well.” I took a deep breath and said, “Well, let’s talk about

it. Surely there is a compromise available somewhere as to what I can do without help

and what you require? What are my weak areas?”

“Honestly, Ed, I just feel you need to think about this job that is so difficult for

even an able-bodied person,” Fred continued. “I want you to meet with Laurie and me

in my office tomorrow and we’ll talk about it further.” “All right,” I said, suddenly

sensing our discussion was over.

I dreaded the two o’clock meeting the next day, as I rolled into the office and saw

Fred sitting at his desk with Laurie in a chair across the room from him. I had not slept

well the previous night. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting?” I

quipped, feeling far from humorous. Fred smiled wryly. Laurie said nothing. The ax

fell when Laurie spoke up. “I agree with Fred. We cannot give you a passing grade for

this course. You haven’t really failed, you are just not able to handle the work here

without a lot of help. You know, we’re a federal hospital and we need to maintain high

visibility. I talked to the personnel department at the University this morning, and they

agreed with us.”

I was not capable of earning a Master’s Degree in this specialized field. I felt my

heart begin to pound. The room began to whirl. Apparently, the color began to drain

from my face because Fred said, “Ed, are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want them to know how much they had hurt me. I was

going to be brave, I told myself. I couldn’t breathe. It was over and I didn’t think I had

been given a chance to defend myself. They knew what my disabilities were before they

accepted me into the internship program. Why had they let me think that I could do the

job when they knew that the assistance I required to do it was not acceptable? I felt

betrayed. I felt angry and deeply hurt as well. Fred’s voice cut through my thoughts

with “Ed, how do you feel? What’s going on?” “I’m fine,” I retorted abruptly. I sensed

100

he knew that I wasn’t fine. Laurie knew that I wasn’t fine, but they also sensed that I

wasn’t going to talk about it.

Fred rose from his desk, and said “I have to be at a meeting soon.” Laurie

echoed “Me, too,” and they left the room together. I whirled my chair around and

raced out of Fred’s office and into mine, closing the door behind me. Blinded by tears, I

made my way to my desk, laying my head on my arm, I sobbed and sobbed as waves of

self-pity and anger flooded over me. I was sucked under in a sea of sorrow. Suddenly,

I remembered that Fred had said, “I will leave it to you to contact the school, Ed. They

told me they would extend another internship to you somewhere else if you want them

to.”

“If I want them to?” I thought to myself, “I need this degree--it is vital to me.” I

raised my head and looked shakily at the telephone. I can’t talk to anyone in this shape,

I thought. I banged my fist down on the desk in anger. The phone jumped. “I can’t do

it, I can’t call the school.” I told myself, “If you don’t, who will?” Taking a deep breath,

I picked up the phone. Fred had given me the number earlier on tape. I put the phone

down, reached for my tape and popped it into the cassette. I played it back and the

school number came up. Shakily, an hour later, I dialed the phone. “Yes, Ed,” the voice

crackled cheerfully over the line, “We will arrange another internship for you. We can

set this one up with a vocational rehab agency in your area. Let me give you the name

of the person to contact.” “Wait a minute,” I said, “I’ll need to get that name and

number on my tape recorder. Yes, give me the number again, please.”

I didn’t call about the new referral just then. I had to first call Mom and Dad.

How was I going to break the news to them, I wondered. But, I did. They did not

express any tears in their supportiveness--or hurt, as I had done in private. Or, did they

cry in private, too? I didn’t know.

That was in late October. I started my next internship in December. This time, I

told myself, it will be different. This time I am going to get my degree. I had been a

former client of voc rehab and I knew the ropes, and they knew what my disabilities

were. Besides, hadn’t the university told me they wanted to give me every chance to

earn my degree because of my unique situation? Sure.

101

Chapter 12

Intern Indigestion . . . again

On December 3, 1984, I transferred from the pickup my dad had driven that

morning. He got out of the driver’s seat and rolled the power chair around to my side

of the vehicle. Turning my chair, and giving Dad a grin of thanks, I wheeled across the

parking lot of the vocational rehab complex. My next internship had begun.

As I rolled into the building, my parents trailed behind me. They were curious to

see my new working quarters. We boarded the elevator and rode up to my floor.

Around the corner from the elevator, we went down one hallway and there it was--my

new office. I greeted the secretaries whom I had met earlier at my initial interview.

Suddenly, Cynthia Jackson appeared from her office, greeting me warmly. She was my

new supervisor. She laughed and greeted us warmly. “I like her,” I thought. I had felt

a sense of elation during my interview when she said, “I know Fred, your former

supervisor. He didn’t get the job done for you. I will. Fred is inadequate in his field.”

“Well,” I thought, “we already agree on one thing.”

My parents had gone back home. Office orientation for me was about to begin.

“There is a lot of material we need to cover, Ed,” Cynthia said as she positioned herself

at her desk. She talked about the process of the agency. “I can get a reader,” I said, as

she showed me the files I would need to review. “Good, you will need one as soon as

you can.” I wasn’t sure who I could get as I began wracking my brain. Margie had said

she would help, I thought, and Hazel had read for me all through my undergrad work.

Hazel was a retired school principal who loved people. I called Hazel and Margie later

that day. Both of them said they would be glad to help. It didn’t occur to me then--

although it certainly should have--to ask myself “Isn’t this the same need for extra

assistance that had created concerns about my first internship?” But, I was happy to be

working again, and didn’t question what it would take to be able to do the job.

My work had begun, as the files were opened and read to me by Hazel or

Margie. Two weeks later, Cynthia came into my office and said, “Ed, I think you are

familiar enough with the procedures that I want you to start working with clients

immediately. I’m going to sit in with you on your first couple of interviews. You’ll start

tomorrow.” “Great,” I thought, “Now comes the time when I can really impress her.

She can see how good I am with clients.” I did not realize my self-conceit was a mask

102

for my feelings of insecurity and fear. We discussed my first client for the remainder of

the hour. “You will want to familiarize yourself with his file,” she said. “I’ve had it put

on tape for you.”

Not too long after that, Cynthia informed me that my schedule required me to

travel out of town one day each week. She said, “If you want to, you can ride along

with me a few times until you can make your own arrangements.”

The day for my first trip arrived, and the 65 miles passed quickly with small talk

and work talk. When we arrived, she drove the car through the narrow streets, parking

her car in front of the courthouse. Getting out, she walked to the back of the car and

opened the door, reached in and pulled my wheel chair out of the back seat. “It’s too

bad my power chair won’t fit in your car,” I said, as she pushed my manual chair up to

my door. “It’s fine,” she said, “I don’t think you’re going too far for this interview

anyhow.” I had called my client the day before to prearrange the meeting at the

courthouse. “There he is now, he’s already here,” she said. She had worked with him

before. She introduced us and another interview--another session--began. I felt

nervous as my recorder sat in front of me. The client somehow seemed to feel calmer

than I did, I thought, as I questioned and talked my way through the session.

The ride back home was spent critiquing my session. Cynthia gave me

occasional praise for some things I had done well, but I felt somewhat discouraged

when she pointed out to me the little things I should have picked up on, or made

observances that I had missed. She suggested comments that I could have made if I had

picked up on the cues. This began to emerge into a weekly pattern on the road. More

out-of-town clients were added to my schedule. One day, Cynthia said “You are on

your own today, Ed. I’ve got some work to do; but tape your session and we can listen

to it on the way home. I want to hear your interview.”

On the way home, I began to squirm in my seat as I listened to the words of the

tape filtering through the speakers of her car stereo. Even I thought it sounded bad. I

repeatedly commented, “I could have said that better,” or, “I should have done this . . .

or that.” Suddenly, she stopped the tape! She rewound it, and said “Listen to this!” I

heard the voice coming through the speakers, “Sometimes, I just want to give up, get on

my horse, and take a long ride . . .” Cynthia exclaimed, “That sounds like a suicidal

statement to me!” I gulped, “Guess I misinterpreted that comment, then. I felt he was

feeling dejected and was saying that he was tired of trying. I didn’t feel that he was

103

suicidal.” “You were wrong, Ed! When we get back to the office, I want you to call him

immediately and make a contract with him that he will not kill himself.”

I did as I was told. I made the phone call. He sounded the same to me, his voice

matter-of-fact and calm, saying “No, I’m not thinking of suicide.” “Just the same,” I

went on, “will you promise me you will be there next week for our appointment?” “I

promise you,” he said.

I wondered, “Did she overreact?” Some would say she did--others would say

she did not. Suicidal fantasies or threats are always to be taken seriously. How many

times have I heard that? I knew it to be a fact, but I had not interpreted his comment as

a suicidal fantasy. Had I had missed it? I didn’t think so, but Cynthia’s reaction

indicated otherwise. I was beginning to feel more inadequate for the tasks at hand.

Cynthia began to bear down on me--relentlessly, I thought. “You need to do this,

you need to do that, you need . . .” I began to feel the pressures mount within me. I

had arranged for my transportation to and from the office with my friend Dan. Dan

was the one who had rescued me when I was stranded at the Vail Hospital after my

wreck--the one who had encouraged me to go back to school--the one who had taught

me basic math skills on the abacus. My friend--my support.

One morning, I poured out my troubles to Dan. “I just don’t know what to do. I

can’t seem to please her,” I went on. “I thought you liked her,” Dan queried. “I did,

until she got mean and ornery,” I all but whined. Dan said, “Ed, why don’t you talk to

Sandy about her?” “Sandy! Why I haven’t had to talk to a counselor for a long time. I

can handle it myself,” I said. Dan continued with his suggestions to help me sort out

my problems. “Well, Sandy is assigned to you through the program, Ed, why don’t you

talk to her about all of this? Maybe she can help.”

As I rolled into Sandy’s office a few days later, she said “How’s it going? Dan

told me you are having some difficulties with your supervisor.” “I’m doing all right,” I

bluffed. I didn’t want to admit my weakness to her. I didn’t want to admit my

weakness to anyone at that point. I was getting physically sick--almost weekly. I had

been at this internship a little over two months and I felt like I was falling apart. The

pressures had begun to build. Sandy and I talked about irrelevant matters. She wasn’t

of much help to me because I wouldn’t allow her to be. I think I instinctively knew that

if I talked about my problems, I would have to face my problems. I wasn’t ready to do

that yet.

104

Days passed into weeks. Winter’s cold, dark shadows lengthened into the

welcome warmth of spring. Tensions between Cynthia and me had mounted to a

feverish pitch. One Friday afternoon, she stormed into my office and said, “I’m

exasperated!” I felt fear begin to rise within me as my heart began to race and my

hands felt clammy. Fear that I had felt so many times when I was in her presence.

Lately, I had even begun to shut my office door to avoid facing her. She went on, “Ed,

you’re not making it in this internship. You need to get into counseling. I think you

have some issues you have not dealt with. I don’t think you’ve accepted your

disability, for one thing. In your last report, you didn’t have to include the fact that you

are in a wheel chair. The fact that you had to meet a client downstairs is totally

irrelevant to his report. You have a way of hooking people with your disability!” That’s

funny, I thought, that is the one thing she’s right about; but, she won’t believe me now if

I tell her that the Lord had showed me the same thing just a few days ago.

That revelation had come to me the previous weekend as I was sitting out in our

apple orchard, praying. As I was praying, the Lord revealed to me that I was filled with

self-pity and tended to manipulate the people around me. It was as though He jabbed a

sharp pointed finger to pierce that form of my life and said “This has got to go! You

can’t do that anymore!” I felt saddened and physically sickened as I saw myself as He

saw me. I can only describe it now as though I felt the Lord reach down into my soul

and physically wretch that ugliness out of me. Since that day, I have never again

knowlingly used my disabilities as a means to get something I wanted.

I was suddenly jolted out of my reflections when I heard Cynthia deliver her

final blow: “I’ll tell you one thing, Ed. You are not going to finish your internship as

soon as you and I first thought you were.” I said “What do you mean?” She said, “I

need to have you work eight hours a day, five days a week for an indefinite period of

time--not just on an intermittent basis. I need to have you do some hard, painful self-

examination and figure out how you can perform in this line of work on your own

without all of the extra people it takes to help you get it done. You need to have readers

to get information from the files, you need to have transcribers to get information to the

files, you need to have someone drive you to and from work, and you need to have

someone drive you to and from the interviews that are out of the office. Ed, ask

yourself, how can you do this in the field of social work after you graduate? Maybe a

career in the social work field isn’t for you.” She rose to go--almost meekly, I thought.

“Ed, we’ll talk more about this later, but I really want you to think hard about what I’ve

said,” as she walked out.

105

That weekend, I cried. Alone in my room. I shut the door and cried. I cried until

there were no more tears to flow. “Oh God, what can I do? Oh God, can I even live

anymore? No, I can’t. My life is messed up. I’m affecting my family, my friends,

everyone I care about! I fell out of my chair onto my bed and then, slipping to the floor,

I felt an overwhelming sense of self-pity. Hopelessness and anxiety weighed down on

me, “I can’t do this,” I said. I got up and made my way into the kitchen. I was alone in

the house. “I can’t live any more. I’m a burden on everyone around me.” I wheeled

over to the silverware drawer, opened it, and looked at it. I reached in and touched the

knife handle. I could never do that. I looked at the aspirin bottle above the sink. I

couldn’t even begin to reach it. Then, I looked back at the knife in the drawer. I picked

it up and wheeled over to the table and laid it on top of the surface. The blade glistened

in the light streaming in through the window. It would sure make a mess, I thought, if I

cut myself. “Wait,” I thought, “Another day it will be better. No, it can’t be better, I’m

losing it. “Losing what?” I asked myself. “If I can’t earn the degree and establish a

career, I’ll be a burden to society--a burden to everyone. I need to earn a living in order

to live.” I picked up the knife and rolled over to the sink. I could do it here, I thought,

and wash the blood down the sink. “That’s crazy,” I told myself. “Wait another day

before you make a decision,” I thought. “Why wait?” My nerves felt frayed and I felt

empty. I felt so alone. I lifted the knife--the blade caught the light as I dropped it back

into the drawer and slammed it shut. I whirled the chair around and raced back to my

room. Shutting the door, I began to shake, “Oh, Lord, am I that far gone?” I cried out

loud. Tears welled up, but would not come, and I began to sob. I cried out to God for

help, strength, courage, hope, answers . . . anything! I must have remained there for

more than an hour on my knees before I felt an overwhelming, unexplainable sense of

peace begin to fill me. “Is that You, God?” I asked. It was almost as if I was lifted off

the floor up into the heavenlies--but I was still here in my room, on the floor, on my

knees. Peace and joy began to fill me. “I can get through this. I can!” I cried out loud.

I remained on my knees in prayer. How long did that go on? I don’t know. I lost all

track of time. The room was dark around me before I realized the afternoon had gone.

I heard voices in the other room. My parents had returned home. I arose from that

experience feeling a sense of power, peace, and release that I had never, never felt

before. I’d been touched by the Lord. I knew it was the Lord.

The next day, as I rode into work with Dan, the sense of peace remained. That

week I felt the pressure continue from Cynthia’s supervision, but it didn’t bother me

anymore. I even found myself agreeing with her on some points.

106

In early May, I sat in the Christian counselor’s office. Leland Griffin was a quiet-

spoken man. I liked him from the first moment I met him when I’d finally relented to

see a counselor in earnest. We began to talk about my internship and about me. I still

felt sadness, but, the “touch” that I had felt alone in my room had changed me. I no

longer felt like a victim. I felt that I had control--or could have control. I learned

positive ways that I could ask for and receive help from others and to recognize and

avoid those situations where I had been manipulative in the past. It was hard for me to

see it at first. I had played the role of the repulsive victim to the hilt at times, but I was

determined not to be that kind of person ever again. Leland said, “You know, Ed, I am

excited to see what God has in mind for you. He has good things in store for you. You

need to know that and to recognize them when they come along.” My spirits soured at

his words of hope and encouragement.

Before the end of that session, Leland asked me to consider coming to a

Christian Singles group where he was a counselor. He said, “They are a bunch of fine

people, and I think you would like them. Ed, you can contribute a lot to this group.

Will you please come and join us?” I accepted eagerly--anticipating their first potluck

dinner get-together. After I attended their first meeting, the group leader asked me if I

would be willing to give my testimony, saying “The people here will be able to accept

you more quickly if they know you better--in your situation and all. Will you give us

your testimony?” “Of course,” I said, “When?” “How about next week?”

I had eagerly prepared my presentation for their next meeting, and I felt myself

begin to relax as I got into my testimony-- talking more freely than I had on other

occasions such as this. I was usually not very comfortable in social situations. When I

finished, people came up to me and said things like “What you said touched me,” or “It

is a blessing,” or “It is great, what you’re doing, getting your degree.” I felt a sense of

acceptance among my new-found friends.

My internship work continued and the month of May was almost over. I’ll be

finished before long, I thought, but I also sensed what was coming. At the last staff

meeting of the month, Cynthia told me that she was recommending that I take some

time off from pursuing my degree to expand my world experiences. She said, “Then,

Ed, in a year or two, if you still want to finish your degree in social work, and you can

figure out methods to accomplish the duties without extra help, you can come back. In

fact, I have already informed D. U. of my intention to consider your internship as not

being completed at this time.” I thought caustically to myself, “Why didn’t she just say

‘if you can figure out a way not to be disabled, you can come back and try again.’” I

107

knew it was over, and I felt the familiar weight in my stomach. But I also felt something

else--just what, I couldn’t define. Paradoxically, I felt a sense of relief that I would no

longer have to cope with her and the pressures of the work there. Then, I heard her say,

“Ed, you need to go into the ministry because ministers are professionals who don’t

have as much required of them as we social workers.” In amazement, I thought, “The

arrogance of that remark is quite astounding–and quite like Cynthia.”

I called Margie the next day and explained to her what had happened. She said, “Good,

Ed, now you can get into the ministry.” “No,” I replied, “Not now--I’m tired. I feel

such a loss.” After I hung up the phone, Margie’s words continued to echo in my mind,

“Ed, this is an opportunity to do something that is more suited for you.”

108

Chapter 13

DELVING INTO DIVINITY

The leader of my Christian Singles group asked me if I would speak at a camp

retreat to be held in the high mountain valley town of Newcastle, Colorado. “Ed, we

really need someone to fill this slot and I think you are the one to do it. The theme will

be dealing successfully with emotions.” I quipped, “I’ve heard of them–emotions–what

are they?” We both laughed, and he said, “Think about it and let me know if you will

do it.”

And so it was that I found myself there in the camp’s conference room, speaking

to a crowded room of eager listeners. As I drifted off to sleep that night, my prayers

and thoughts mixed together as I said “Speaking and writing is arrived just before she

called. “Oh, so you’re the culprit who arranged that,” I laughed. “Yes, what I really

want to do, Lord.” The seminar that I had led that day had gone well. In fact, many

had asked me for a copy of the outline I’d prepared for my talk.

Later that month, Margie’s voice bubbled excitedly over the telephone line. “Ed,

have you received the letter from the Bible College?” The letter had Ed, I’m the one

who wrote to them and asked them to send you the information. I think you need to

enroll and study for the ministry!”

I thought to myself, “What a friend she is–always working to help me!”

But, I thought of my previous experiences with my internship, and shuddered at

the thought of more schooling. Oddly enough, I minimized my success in school and

maximized my failure. I knew it wasn’t right to dwell on the negative, but the fear of

failure was all but overwhelming me.

In spite of my doubts, I took another leap of faith and soon the textbooks, study

guides and lectures from Liberty Bible College began to arrive in the mail. At first, it

overwhelmed me. One by one, I began to contact volunteer readers who had read for

me before. “I don’t know if you want to do some more reading . . .” I asked hesitantly,

but-- surprisingly-- they did.

109

Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus began to unfold before me in a new light. Every

day, a new discovery–another insight. Romans, Matthew, Mark and Luke–it was if a

whole new world had opened for me. I shared some of my excitement with Margie. “I

know the feeling. Remember, Ed, I spent some time in Bible college myself.” “I didn’t

know that,” I cried. She replied, “I thought I told you about that when we first met, but

maybe not. Yes, Ed, I attended Bible college. That is why I knew that it was so right for

you.”

Gradually, I felt faith begin to return--in some ways, a new, stronger

faith–because now I had bits and pieces of knowledge to build upon. I had a whole new

foundation of knowledge and truth. Deep joy returned to me as well.

“Sunday School teacher?” I said. “I’ll consider it.” The newly organized Sunday

School class for singles had begun in the valley and there I was preparing a lesson for

one Sunday morning.

Then, some time later at a business meeting in my church, they planned a service

in honor of “Disabled Awareness Sunday.” This day was organized across the country

due to the efforts of one Joni Erickson Tada and others. “Ed,” Pastor Coffey was saying,

“I want you to preach for that service. I scratched my head and said, “That’s fine, but

wouldn’t it be better to get someone who is disabled?” The people in the room broke

into a fit of laughter, and I was glad that they felt so comfortable with me.

Nervously, I sat behind the podium listening to the last verse of the hymn

knowing that my sermon was about to begin. As the congregation sat down, settling

into their pews, I wheeled to the microphone. My mouth was dry, my palms were

sweating, and I am sure that even my wheels were knocking together! “It’s good to see

all of you nice people here this morning–and, as for the rest of you–it’s good to see you

as well.” The congregation laughed, and I felt my tension disappear as I launched into

the morning’s message.

Later, at the door, the people greeted me warmly. I felt the mission I had been

given had been accomplished. There would be other times to preach and teach, I knew,

but this first time was undoubtedly the most difficult.

The Christian singles group of which I had become a part continued to grow and

expand into more activities. One weekend that summer, I was asked to prepare a

devotional message for another upcoming retreat. I gulped and said I would be happy

110

to do it. Then, I thought to ask, “Is the campground accessible?” “If not, we’ll make it

accessible. You pick your topic, Ed, and talk around it.” So, I went.

As I sat back in my chair, I surveyed the group gathered around me sitting on the

grass. A stream could be heard nearby as the small brook babbled in the background.

The mountains were so close you could almost reach out and touch the majestic peaks.

Green pines laced the hillsides and the summer sun shone warmly on us. “What a

place,” I thought. It wasn’t totally accessible, but we managed. Most of the people

gathered around me that day were my friends.

I cleared my throat, and said “We are going to talk this morning about gaining

through pain and growing through loss. We all have broken dreams and bitter realities,

but it is just the beginning--for in Christ we have a better future and a brighter hope!”

As I began to speak, I thought “Is this autobiographical or what?” That is what I

had done--I had gained through pain and grown through loss!

111

Chapter 14

THE FAITH LIFT

I studied diligently for the sermons I had been asked to give. Admittedly, they

had been few and far between, but in my spirit I could not give up the idea of

preaching. I recalled the many professors and friends who had told me I would be a

good preacher. I always bristled at these suggestions because I had a limited view of the

ministry. I thought the ministry was for someone who had a full-time church,

preaching every Sunday morning, evening, mid-week services, plus visitation to

hospitals, plus a lot of work! I knew my capacity was limited in physical activities, so I

always replied “I could not be a preacher.” The idea of preaching, however, persisted

in my mind.

I continued the correspondence Bible studies which I had been doing for some

time. It took me four years to complete the courses at Liberty Bible College in

Lynchburg, Virginia. I had been enthralled from the first time I began to study the book

of Romans in depth. The commentaries and the teachers on tape brought the book alive.

Then, the Old Testament survey was followed by the New Testament survey, and it went

on and on. My love for the scripture deepened with each new study. I could not

believe how much I had missed by not studying the Word of God previously. I

absorbed it like a dry sponge. It just thrilled me with excitement. I never knew that I

could be excited by the Bible, but it came alive to me during those four years I studied at

Liberty.

I had completed my degree work at Liberty when, one evening, my phone rang.

It was a professor calling me from Liberty. “Ed,” he was saying, “You’ve done well in

this school and we encourage you to continue your studies in the Word of God.” “I

would like to,” I said. My professor continued to say “There are more courses that you

can take, but we know your situation and that you are on a limited income. We would

like to suggest that you contact Bethany Bible College in Dotham, Alabama to continue

toward getting your doctorate degree. We would like for you to work towards this with

us, but, honestly, our program would be much more expensive than Bethany’s and we

appreciate Bethany’s quality of work in their college. In fact, we work hand-in-hand

with them on many occasions.” I thanked the professor profusely for understanding

my situation, and I mailed a letter to Bethany Bible College the following week.

112

I was enrolled in that school. I worked out a payment plan with them that I

could afford, and I began to study for an advanced degree in Christian Counseling. My

studies in the scriptures continued. The field of Christian Counseling differs from

secular counseling in that it allows the counselor more latitude to be–in my

words–more real and more of a friend. I never could understand the secular arena–how

their professional persona seemed to me to be so inhumane. A person enters the office

with a problem on their mind. When their time is up, they leave and go back home and

or back to their office with their problem for another week, another day. Yes, some

people do receive help in the secular area, but how much more humane is Christian

counseling when you can love the people you work with, when you can see them in

church with you, and encourage them in the off-scheduled times. A scheduled time and

place to counsel someone is important, but there also is another very important element

in counseling–that is the spirit of counseling. Christian counseling is somewhat similar,

in my opinion, to discipling someone: You love them, you encourage them in the Word

of God, and you bring them from the point of dependance upon you to dependance

upon Christ. And, therein, is the important key to Christian counseling. You point

someone else to Christ and then you lead them to Him. In His Hands, our lives become

secure and worthwhile because He can take a life broken and put the pieces together

again. He often uses people to put the pieces together, but ultimately the healing rests

in His Hands.

So, I returned to the discipline of study. I set aside a time each day–two hours in

the morning to do my book work which consisted of listening to a tape-recorded book.

In front of me were three recorders: one to play the book on, one to talk into the tape

recorder to do my lessons, and the other to make notes or to read from notes. My mom

was instrumental in my education for she read my study guides endlessly on tape, it

seems, and others read my books on tape for me as they had done for my other studies

in college. I had entered a new field of study. I had left the pursuit of psychology and

sociology somewhere behind. Now I had launched into the greatest study of my

life–the Word of God. Psychology didn’t thrill my soul the way the Word of God did.

Sociology did not stimulate my mind the way scripture did. My study of the scriptures

continues even to this day for the Word of God is living and a passage of scripture

studied a thousand times over always can be new. New insights–new twists on old

truth.

One example of a new insight on an old truth is from Mark and the account of the

paralytic being carried to Jesus and lowered down through the roof by his friends. I

studied that scripture in depth earlier in the year. I had read it countless times

113

previously, but this time new insights began to come to me as I pondered and prayed

over this passage. I thought, “Wow, it doesn’t say that Jesus saw the paralytic’s faith. It

says that Jesus saw their faith, and he healed this man on the basis of his friends’ faith.

This encouraged me in my praying for others.

114

Sometimes we have weak faith–sometimes we lose sight of God in our struggles. But,

others can come alongside and Jesus sees our faith and does the miraculous in the lives

of those people we pray for. I recall the times I had lost faith. Others held me up in

prayer and eventually I saw Jesus again. Not in the physical sense, but in a spiritual

sense, Jesus revealed himself to me in a way which would bring me comfort again. But,

we who are strong in the Lord need to pray for those who are weak in the Lord. The

best thing we can do for someone is to do the thing that this paralyzed man’s friends

did for him–carry them to Jesus. As I was preaching a sermon not long ago, I said

“When the men came up on the roof and began to lower the stretcher down through the

rooftop, the paralytic on the stretcher said to the crowd, “I was in the area and I thought

I would just drop in to say ‘hi’!” Well, I think humor is a very important part of

Christianity–and certainly it is a very important part of my preaching. But, we don’t

need a comedian behind the pulpit. What needs to be behind the pulpit is someone

who will declare the unaltered unadulterated Word of God and then let the chips fall

where they may. God is committed to his Word and He has promised that it will not

return void, but it will accomplish the purpose that God has in mind.

The reference to the section of scripture taken from Mark regarding the healing

of the paralytic raises in my mind the question of healing–faith healing. When I was

younger and newly-disabled there were many well-meaning individuals who would

tell my parents “There is a certain person down South that is a faith-healer. Take Ed

down there and get him doused with oil and prayed over and he will be healed.” They

handed us prayer cloths which had been ordered by mail from a certain faith-healer and

one neighbor even brought in her pastor to our house. He was from another

faith–indeed, I would consider it a cult–and he poured oil over my head and prayed

over me. He gathered Mom and Dad around my wheel chair as he prayed and invoked

the blessing of the Lord on my healing. Perhaps the most unsettling faith-healing

experience I can recall from my childhood was by one of our well-meaning charismatic

neighbors–and God knows I love charismatic people. I am not opposed to charisma, for

the spirit of God can do whatever the spirit of God chooses to and he gifts whom He

will. Please don’t misunderstand me at this point, but I am only relating an account to

you from my past which actually occurred. A neighbor showed up on our doorstep,

enthusiastically proclaiming “Today, Ed, you will be healed!” As Mom and Dad and

the neighbor all piled in the car with me and my wheel chair, we drove to the church

where this faith-healer was holding the service. I was 13 years old. The wheel chair

was taken out of the car, I transferred into the chair, and we rolled into this church with

Mom pushing me from behind. We sat up front because our neighbor said, “When you

are close to the spirit of God, there is more opportunity for Him to fall on you!” So, we

115

sat there as the music rose in ever increasing crescendo. People were clapping their

hands and moving spiritedly in the aisles. The charismatic church services are great for

some people because some people need a spirited service. Others need a more subdued

reverent worship experience. I have no problem with either expression of worship. I

do believe that God is big enough to receive all of us in our unique worship styles.

There we sat in the front row of the church, close to the power of the spirit of

God according to our neighbor and friend, Clara. When the preacher called me

forward, I was wheeled up to be prayed over. He laid his hand on me and then he

asked my mom and dad questions about me. The man began to invoke the Lord to cast

out Satan from me! I thought at the time, “I’m a Christian. How can satan possess a

Christian?” I was not theologically astute, but I knew that much about Christianity--

that darkness and light cannot coexist. But the preacher began to jump up and down

and shake me, and yelled in a loud voice for the Satan in me to come out and release me

and I’d be healed. He began to shake me more vigorously and began to get more vocal.

I sat there in my wheel chair–terrified at this man’s gyrations as he shook me. Now,

mind you, he did not hurt me physically. He just scared the – well, I thought later, “He

just tried to scare the hell out of me instead of trying to cast satan out of me!” He was

doing a good job of terrifying me, for sure. He broke out in a sweat and finally stopped.

He looked at Mom and Dad and said, “There must be sin in your lives, or else this boy

would be healed! Confess your sin now so that your boy may be healed!” Mom and

Dad stood before this man, this stranger, dumbfounded. They didn’t know what to say.

Then the man released me and said, “Okay, that’s enough. I’m done.” Then, he

proceeded to launch into a sermon whereby he told the congregation about how God

had protected him so well over the years he still had all his teeth in his head that God

had preserved for him. The service drug on and I felt depleted and depressed the

whole time. I left the building determined not to do anything like that again.

It was years and years later when I was sitting in church in Denver that a healing

service broke out. The congregation began to gather round and pray for one another

and two people approached my wheel chair and began to pray for me to be healed.

Nervously, I began to look for the nearest exit. I had been through this thing before!

They began to get louder, and one of the pastors whom I respected highly approached

the wannabe faith healers gathering around my chair. He put his hands on their

shoulders and in a soft, but firm, voice he said, “Wait a minute. Hold on. I think God

will heal if he wants to. You don’t have to force God. Just back off a little and let God

be God.” They looked at him, not at all offended, and said “Yes, you are right.” This

man’s gentle spirit and kindness reached out to me more than any faith healer ever

116

could. I was so impressed with his love and quiet sensitivity for me and for them, and

in the way he defused a difficult situation.

Again, I stress-- I believe God can heal. One incident in particular is still fresh in

my mind although it happened years ago. Sitting in a church board meeting late one

night, Bob Stephens asked the men for prayer because he was going to have a growth

removed from his leg in a few days. The men gathered around Bob and laid hands on

him. After the meeting, Bob brought me home and called his wife and told her he

would be home shortly. We talked and prayed together. On Thursday, the day of his

appointment, my phone rang. Bob was on the other end of the line. He said, “Ed, you

won’t believe this! Are you sitting down?” I said, “Yes, I am. I sit down a lot, Bob.” I

laughed and said “What’s up?” Bob said, “I just returned from the doctor’s office. You

know, I was going to be prepped for surgery to remove that growth from my leg.

When the surgeon got ready to do it, he said he didn’t know what happened to the

growth, maybe he misdiagnosed it, but it was gone!” Bob related to him about the

aspect of prayer for healing. The doctor said, “Well, I don’t know about miracles, but

your growth is completely gone. Go on home.”

I have often thought if I would have been healed or never disabled in the first

place, my life would certainly have been different. I would have taken a different path

in life. I am reminded of the poem of Robert Frost. You know, the one about different

roads converging in a yellow wood and he took the one less traveled and that made all

the difference? Well, my life would have been different if I had not been disabled, but

would it have been as rich spiritually or as rich emotionally? I have no idea, but I have

given up on trying to second-guess God.

117

Chapter 15

AS THE GUT CHURNS . . .

Sitting in my wheelchair, I looked at the group gathered around the vehicles

getting ready to load up and leave for Lake Powell. There were ten people there from

our Christian Singles group, but I knew only five of them. The others were new to the

group or invited guests. I had not met the man I was assigned to ride with and we

introduced ourselves as he loaded my wheelchair into the back of his pickup. Just then,

he lit a cigarette and I knew I was in trouble because I was allergic to smoke. I quickly

looked around and saw a lady standing near her car. She had just recently started

attending our meetings and I did not know her very well, but I quickly asked if I could

ride with her instead. She looked at me, hesitated for a moment, and then said “Sure.”

I transferred out of the pickup and into her car and, to my chagrin, I failed to transfer

my wheelchair from the pickup into her car. After the dilemma I found myself in a little

later that day, I have made sure not to repeat that mistake.

Marilyn and I chatted amiably as she drove through the west end of the valley

and on into eastern Utah. The sun was going down as we motored into the restaurant

area where we were to meet the rest of the group. At least, that is where I thought we

were going to meet the others. Since Green River, Utah was such a small town I

assumed that it had only one restaurant. You guessed it–the other people in our group

went to a different restaurant and there we sat, waiting in the parking lot for the others

to show up. Finally, over two hours later, I asked Marilyn if she would mind going into

the restaurant and see if she could find two strong guys who would be willing to come

out and carry me inside so we could eat. She hesitated for a few moments, and then left

the car and went inside. Later, she told me that she had hesitated at the thought of

going into a restaurant and asking two strangers to come out to the car with her.

Furthermore, she was upset with the situation she had found herself in because she

didn’t know me very well and didn’t know what my needs might be. She was a good

sport about it, though, and soon returned to the car with two great big guys in tow.

They were smiling as they carried me into the restaurant and I was feeling very

conspicuous. After we had ordered our meal, the hostess of the restaurant very

graciously offered to call a friend to bring over a wheel chair for me. I thanked her

profusely because then an even bigger emerging problem would be solved – I could go

to the bathroom if I had a wheelchair.

118

It was almost 10:30 that night when we left Green River. By the time we arrived

at Lake Powell and met the others who had been waiting for us, got everything loaded

onto the houseboat and launched out into the deep, it was two o’clock in the morning!

That weekend at Lake Powell was a wonderful time. The blue water below us

and the blue sky above us when we maneuvered the house boat out into the deep was

all we could see. “Isn’t this great?” Maylon was saying as he stood beside me, and he

suddenly lifted his head and began to sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” in a voice

like no one I had ever heard before. His voice resounded and echoed off the canyon

walls as we listened in thunderstruck awe! Maylon later shared with us that he had

recorded some albums with a group of men in college where they had toured

Switzerland performing singing engagements in the Alps.

The houseboat slowed down to a snail’s pace crawl as we turned our way to the

shoreline. We anchored the boat for the night between two high canyon walls with the

stars and the moon glimmering overhead. “A blue moon,” someone was saying, “you

know, that is when a full moon appears twice in the same month.” The moon hung low

over Lake Powell. The water was still and quiet and clear and we saw the moonlight

reflecting on the water. We all fell quiet in our own reveries and, again, Maylon’s voice

lifted up in song as he began to sing “How Great Thou Art.” That song had never

sounded more beautiful than it did on that still quiet night under the stars. Suddenly, I

was filled with a sense of awe at the beauty around me. Some moments I want to

capture and freeze for all time and that was one of those rare moments.

The next morning, as the sun rose over the high canyon walls, again the light

from the sky shimmered on the water. This time it was from the morning sun. We had

just launched out after breakfast when suddenly I heard a cry. “Man overboard!” I

whirled around as I saw a body churn in the water which I immediately recognized as

Pete. I knew that he was an excellent swimmer and, as he surfaced to the water, I

laughingly shouted to someone to get the net. “We have a big fish here-- I think it’s a

big sucker!” I thought to myself “Maybe I’m the sucker and being foolish for taking

the time off from my studies to take this trip out to Lake Powell,” but I quickly

squelched that thought.

“Ouch!” I said. I had just reached out to take the cup which Marilyn was

handing to me on the houseboat. The cup was filled with steaming hot coffee. I didn’t

have a firm grip on the cup as she let go. I dropped the cup and the hot coffee spilled in

my lap. “I guess I just got the hots for you, Marilyn, or is it-- I got the hots because of

119

you?” “Are you hurt Ed?” she said. I could tell she was concerned by the tone of her

voice. I assured her that I would survive.

That incident, I think, was the start of something more between us. Marilyn and I

began to build a relationship on that trip. Our friendship for each other soon grew into

more than that. We found that we had so many common interests, and could talk for

hours about nothing. She learned more about my disability and I learned more about

her ability to take it in stride. Mom and Dad and Ellis quickly adopted her into our

family and we soon found ourselves thinking, talking and acting like a couple of kids in

love. We had been going together for almost three years, and we had been talking

about marriage for a long time. I wanted to wait until I had finished my doctorate and

could support a family before I took on that responsibility.

Now, I don’t even pretend to understand relationships– how they start, how they

develop. I do know they require work, patience, and, when problems arise, they need

to be resolved or dealt with. We had learned to know one another well during that

three-year courtship, and it was becoming apparent that the more things we found in

common, the more obvious were the things we did not have in common. It was with

the uncommonness that I was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

Spirituality was the big key. Marilyn did not have too much interest in the Bible

During those three years, the only discussions we had about faith and the Bible were

discussions that I initiated. Even then, her interest in any such discussions was short-

lived and mostly, I felt, out of a sense of duty rather than any conviction to a belief. She

seemed to enjoy arguing about religion without taking any particular stand one way or

the other. She became somewhat of an agitator at our Christian Singles group meetings.

She was fascinated by mysticism and read her horoscope “religiously!” I overlooked it

at first, trying not to use my spiritual beliefs as a measuring stick for what she must

believe.

Then, one single incident occurred which permanently altered the way I felt

about her. We were in my room and she went to the dresser to get something–I don’t

remember exactly what. In the process, she knocked my Bible off the dresser and it hit

the floor with a thud. I said, “What was that? Did you drop something?” “Oh, no,” she

replied, “It was nothing--just the Bible.” It was nothing–just the Bible! I thought to

myself, “how could she say that–or even think that?” Her words bothered me more

than I could have imagined. I knew that I could not live my life with someone who

cared so little about what I cared for the most. It had been a series of small things –

120

fundamental differences that couldn’t be bridged. According to James, faith without

works is dead. We have the Holy Spirit in us and His Word -- the Bible -- before us. We

have no excuse because he says “Be doers of the Word and not hearers only. You

believe in God? So what! The devil believes in God and trembles!” I remembered a

phrase I had read from C. S. Lewis which was something to the effect that “sometimes

God whispers to us and sometimes He shouts to us, but He gets our attention one way

or the other.” I felt this was such a whisper and I couldn’t ignore it. I could not seem

to get her words out of my mind.

As the weeks passed, I began to feel a weight in my spirit, chest, gut, about our

relationship. I knew I couldn’t continue on with marriage in mind, but I hated to tell

her. I didn’t want to hurt her. I grieved in my spirit about this relationship. I didn’t

know how to approach it, other than to just tell her outright. So, we were sitting in her

car on Grand Mesa overlooking the lake one Sunday afternoon when I looked at her

and said, “I have something to tell you, Marilyn.” Then, I fell silent and looked away,

pretending to look out the window at the tall pine trees which were always present on

Grand Mesa. The trees were shading the lake by which we sat. I dropped my arm out

the window and tapped aimlessly on the car door with my fingers as I summoned up

the courage to continue. Taking a deep breath, I looked at Marilyn and said, “I --the

words caught in my throat. Tears filled my eyes as I went on and said “I don’t believe it

is best for us to be” -- the words hung in the air as I paused – then I went on and said

the word, “married.” I fell silent gazing into her face. A long silence ensued as we sat

there, saying nothing. She said, at last, “I was going to tell you the same thing.”

“Really?” I said, my spirit lifting somewhat. “Where do we go from here, Marilyn?”.

She said, “Friends, Ed, we can still be friends.” I wanted to talk to her about what had

happened to our love, but I knew that I was on shaky ground emotionally, and any

discussion might easily undermine my resolve to make a clean break. I thought to

myself, no need to discuss it now because it is over and I didn’t want the romance to

bloom again. It amazes me how our lives weave patterns and changes and how the

Lord prepares us in advance for many things we must face. He prepares us so well. I

did not know that day on Grand Mesa that Marilyn would be transferred shortly

thereafter to Denver and that I would not see her again for more than a year. I did not

know then that we would grow even further apart over the years, but the Lord knew

that, and prepared both of us for it.

Her car was in motion now as we wound around the curves which would bring

us down into the valley again. The sun began to set in the west. It was dark when we

arrived at my home. “Come on in,” I said, “and say hi to Mom and Dad before you go.”

121

She said, “Not now, Ed, I can’t talk to them now. I will talk to them later.” I thought of

them and their loss. My losses were their losses because we were so close in our lives.

Not in a co-dependent sense–although that word has been far overused and abused in

our current culture. But they had both developed a deep fondness for Marilyn as well

as she with them. I told them about it as soon as I went into the house. They took the

news of our breakup with sadness, but they said “You know what is best for you.” The

tears came that night and for many nights to follow. I was grieving the loss of a love,

the loss of a planned future, the loss of a companion in my life.

I threw myself into my studies once more. As my courses continued, the grades

continued to arrive in the mail. “It is a long process,” I thought, “this correspondence

school. It requires a certain kind of discipline.” I missed the interaction with other

students that I had enjoyed at D.U., but then there was no one breathing down my neck

either. And, I continued to feel the loss of Marilyn. “I need a break,” I thought. “I have

been studying for almost six months straight without a break.” So, the weekend away

for a Christian Singles Weekend Retreat at Camp Red Cloud in Lake City sounded very

good to me right then.

That weekend in October at Camp Red Cloud was to provide yet another gut-

wrenching experience, but one that would be remembered by me as an exhilarating

emotional high!

The camp was an activity camp. Different rope courses had been outlined by the

camp directors as a means for individuals to push themselves to the limit. Each activity

had a spiritual application. I thought of the application to be learned while sitting there

at the foot of a 90-foot cliff. I looked up to the top of the cliff. “It reaches right up into

heaven,” I thought, “and it is going to be a long way up there!” I wondered if I had bit

off more than I could chew — again.

Two men stepped up beside me as their arms reached under my armpits and my

legs. “Are you ready, Ed?” “Only if you are,” I replied, as they picked me up out of my

chair and began walking up the hillside with me in a fireman’s carry. Halfway up the

hill, they stopped. “How far is it to the top?” I asked. They said, breathing hard,

“About 90 feet to the top.” After a short rest, they continued the climb up the hill with

me between them. At the top, they sat me down and I peered over the edge of the cliff.

“Gulp!” I said, “that’s a long way down to the bottom.”

122

The spiritual application had been explained to me before we ascended to the

top. “This is an act of faith — you don’t see the persons holding the ropes. They are on

top of the cliff, and you are underneath them. You can’t see their hands letting out the

rope gradually — enough for you to descend down the side of the cliff. You will need

to push against the mountainside to get some slack. When you reach the bottom, you

yell “Down” or “Belay off.” It was called repelling. I scooted out over the edge of the

cliff and looked down below. “It’s beautiful,” I thought, “the valley stretched out for

miles on end. I could see the creek bed down below and the snow-capped peaks above.

The trees on the hillside stood as stately as if they were in reverent worship of God. I

took a deep breath, and slid off over the edge of the cliff. The ropes held. The two men

on either side of me kept my body straight because I had a tendency to turn sideways. I

pushed my feet against the side of the cliff as I had been instructed to do. As I pushed

against the cliff wall, I felt the rope loosen and I dropped! It was just a short drop, but

my gut didn’t know the difference! I collected my wits, took a deep breath, and pushed

my feet against the cliff again. Step-by-step, a little lower each time, I gradually inched

down. “This is like faith,” I thought, “I walk by faith not by sight,” according to the

scripture. “In fact, this whole lesson is about faith. You can’t see the person holding the

ropes.”

People were standing on the ground below me, waiting to take their turn at this

plunge down the cliff after I finished. I had watched the ones before me take this same

trip down. Some slid down quickly while others inched down slowly. I was one of the

“inchers.” It took about half an hour for me to reach the bottom. At last, my feet

touched the ground. My wheel chair was quickly positioned under me and firm hands

untied the ropes which had held me up. I sat back in my chair, heaving a sigh of relief.

My two companions who had come down with me patted me on the back.

I had rapelled down a 90-foot cliff — a spastic quadriplegic almost blind — but I

was not at risk. I was protected by strong arms. How much like the Lord that is, as I

thought of Deuteronomy 32:4, “ underneath are the everlasting arms.” We are as safe as

we can be with Him.

123

Chapter 16

WHO? ME? A PREACHER?

I sat there in the front of the church. My friend had just wheeled me up there

and had left me alone in the sanctuary. I had wanted to come early on that spring

evening in 1994. The last rays of the afternoon sun streamed in through the stained-

glass windows. In the stillness, I thought and prayed about this first class which would

be starting in a few minutes.

I looked around at the familiar setting. The pews behind me. The high cathedral

ceiling above me which sloped into an arch. I had arrived early on purpose. I wanted to

collect my thoughts and pray and ponder. It had been a long time, I thought, since I

had first heard someone say that I should become a preacher. My professors

throughout my undergraduate work had often uttered this refrain. My usual answer

was to tell them I was going into social work, but one professor said, “Ed, don’t miss

your calling. You need to preach.” I remembered my oft-repeated reply, “Who? Me?

Never!” I had felt that I didn’t have the physical capacity to pull it off. I knew that

sermons were based on written notes and also involved the reading of scriptures from

the Bible. My vision would not permit me to do this, and I knew that any sermons or

scriptures I delivered would have to be totally committed to memory beforehand. It

seemed out of the question.

But, here I was, sitting in the sanctuary reflecting on how I had arrived at this

place in my life — about to begin a class in homiletics in my study for the ministry!

I thought of the years I had spent in my Master’s level studies and how I was not

able to complete the internship needed for my Masters in social work. That was

followed by completing the upper-graduate studies and completing my Masters in

Christian Counseling through the Bethany Bible Institute. I was still working on my

Doctorate in Biblical Studies, so simultaneously taking on a one-year course to study for

the ministry may have been somewhat overzealous.

“Could I do this?” I asked myself. “Well, old boy,” I said out loud, “You have

bitten off more than you could chew before and it hasn’t choked you yet!” I chuckled to

myself, thinking again about my futile endeavor to obtain my Masters in social work.

“A career in that field was down the drain,” I thought, “but not a waste.” Not a waste,

124

for if we have our trust in God’s economy nothing is wasted because he allows all

things to work together for the good to them that love Him and are called according to

his purpose. Romans 8:28 “That’s a good sermon title,” I said out loud again, and tried

a few words just to see how they would sound in the sanctuary. My words echoed off

the walls. “I have some work to do,” I said, as I listened to my voice echoing back to

me, “work to do, work to do, work to do.”

I was excited about this class — this class in homiletics. This was the high point

in my studies for the ministry. Learning how to put together a sermon and preach was

a big step. I knew as soon as I rolled into the sanctuary that afternoon that I was going

to commit my life to it. Our instructor was a gifted man who had taught homiletics

at a college for ten years before coming to Grand Junction. As it turned out, my class

was the one and only class he taught here. He left the valley the following year to

accept a ministry position in La Grange, Wyoming and also to care for his aging mother.

My friend and pastor-teacher, Bill Marietta, would pace back and forth before the

class, speaking to us in his deep rumbling voice, occasionally looking at us as he took

off his glasses and put them in his pocket without breaking his stride. As he moved, I

watched his motions. His mannerisms, his words, his appearance impressed me. He

taught us from his own life experiences. He told us that when he was in Bible college,

they were assigned classes which involved street evangelism. “You haven’t preached,”

he said, “until you have preached on the streets of a large city. Hecklers will come, but

some will listen. And, yes, some will receive the Savior in street preaching, but the

purpose is to follow Christ’s instructions to go and make disciples of all nations. That is

really the crux of our preaching — to make disciples.”

He stopped his pacing and looked at us and said “Do you know, men, how good

Christ is? Do you know how much He has given us? When you preach, preach Christ,

preach grace, preach His love, preach His forgiveness, preach hope, and preach to the

hurting, and you will always have an audience.” He put his glasses back on and said,

“Okay, who is first? Ed, do you want to go first?”

“Sure,” I said, as I wheeled forward. I turned around and faced the class and

launched into the sermon I had prepared for that first night — “Once upon a time there

were three little pigs” I began. I went on to recite the account of the pigs going to

market and how each one had bought different materials to build a house. The wolf

blew down the straw house and the house built with sticks, but the house built with

125

bricks could not be blown down. I concluded the nursery rhyme with the question:

“What is your house built on? Is your house built upon the sand?” Then, I related the

gospel account of Christ’s parable of the man who had built his house upon the sand

and the rains came and his house was washed away. The man who had built his house

upon the rock could withstand the winds and the rains because it was built upon a firm

foundation. “There is one foundation,” I said, “Christ alone. If our lives are rooted and

built in Him, and we are standing on the promise of His Word, we cannot be blown

away with adversity, disease, disaster, or dysentery,” I punned and grinned. I admit

that my words are not always grammatically correct, but I choose words for their

impact and their significance.

I recall Bill Marietta’s advice to use any message you can to get your point across.

He told me I might even have an advantage over some of the others who were on their

feet. My wheelchair, my disability, would give me endless resources to draw examples

from my own life. He said, “To be open and vulnerable before a congregation with the

reality of your own life is important. Christians are human. Humans have difficulties.

Humans have addictions. Humans have what humans have — life struggles and life

joys. A preacher is no different — He puts his pants on one leg at a time.” In my case, I

sometimes struggle getting my pants on regardless of which leg I start with.

The preaching class continued through the summer and on into the fall. We had

to prepare and deliver a sermon each week After each sermon, there would be a critique

by the class and the instructor. Bill always found something positive to say about each

and every sermon. No one left a class feeling discouraged.

Winter came. The cold winter nights in western Colorado are dark. The icy

snow-packed streets are part of the community decoration. I continued to be at the

class week after week, learning how to prepare, plan and preach a sermon. Often these

sermons would occupy the greater part of my week in thinking about them, planning

them, preaching them in my room, preaching them to my mirror, preaching them into

my tape recorder. Others in the house with me, Mom. Dad, and visiting relatives,

became accustomed to hearing my voice somewhere in the far part of the house. “Who

is Ed talking to?” “Oh, he is just preaching,” my dad would reply. “Preaching to

who?” “Himself.” My dad would then continue on “You know, he needs a good

preaching to every now and then!”

Mike Smith, my friend of four years, came to the class on one occasion and made

a video of me as I preached and gesticulated and eloquently held forth. Later, when I

126

saw the video played back, I thought “Ohhhh, my goodness, can that be me up there?

Who is that fool preaching? It can’t be me!” But, sure enough, it was. It is good to see

yourself on camera and it is good to hear yourself on the tape recorder once in awhile

because it will certainly keep you humble. It certainly did humble me!

I continued to plan my sermon materials using different ways to present the

gospel truth — hoping to be creative but not cutting. I wanted to be fresh but not

foolish.

All the while, I continued to study toward my doctorate through the Bible

seminary. I had been enrolled, it seemed, for most of my adult life. Now, I had been

catapulted into another field of study and the study was exciting. The Bible came alive

to me. I was absolutely thrilled with the study of scripture — from Old Testament to

New Testament. Each book took on a new meaning to me. I was challenged to do some

of my own translations; that is, to take a book of the Bible and rewrite it in my own

words. This was a form of discipline to learn a passage of scripture as well as to

appreciate the work that Bible translators such as Wycliffe has done. That institution is

challenged to translate the Bible into every tongue of every tribe of every nation in the

world! I soon gained a deep appreciation for those who labor in Bible translation.

Tough assignment. I then began to paraphrase and rewrite scripture in my own words.

This really brought the Bible alive to me in a new way.

I incorporated some of my Bible translation into my sermons. For example, the

account of David and Goliath as found in 1 Samuel. I labored over the sermon and,

drawing from my own translation, I began the message that night in class by stating

boldly “David was the first rock and roll artist in history.” The men in the class looked

at me with mouths agape, but they knew my style by now and were ready to rise to the

bait. I said, “David threw the rock and Goliath rolled.” They laughed as I launched

into my sermon about how we go forth in God’s power to conquer the enemy — not in

our own strength and not in the strength of others around us. We fight battles through

the strength of the Lord. Zechariah 4:6 was my closing scripture in that sermon:

“So he said to me, ‘This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel: Not by might nor by power,

but by my Spirit says the Lord Almighty.’”

Some time later, I developed that same theme from 1 Samuel 16 for a message

given at a camp retreat weekend. David had gone to deliver some goods to his brothers

who were in battle against Goliath and the Philistines. The account goes on to tell us

127

that David became incensed when he heard Goliath belittling the God of the Israelites.

He approached King Saul. He, in short, asked why didn’t someone take care of this big

bully? Saul said, “We’re trying! We’re trying!” David said, “Well, I’ll do it!” Saul, by

this time, was desperate, so he loaned David his armor. We are not told why Saul did

not go out to battle in his own armor, but, nevertheless, David could not move in Saul’s

armor, so he went to battle with nothing more than a staff and a slingshot. The point in

my message that day was that we can’t do our job in someone else’s style. God has

given us unique abilities to do unique things with the tools he has given us. We need to

go forth in battle for the Lord dressed in that armor. “One size fits all,” I said, “but we

cannot fight the battles we are not called to do. Give individuals the honor to fight their

own battles — don’t fight their battles for them because it doesn’t work.”

One of my favorite sermon themes came about as I was sitting in our

orchard one evening, thinking about fruit trees. You may recall that earlier in this book

I wrote about the orchard I helped plant when I was a youngster. On second thought, I

don’t know if I helped plant or got in the way of the work of planting. At any rate, the

fruit trees, young saplings, are placed in the ground with their roots sunk deep into the

soil. Then the roots are covered with soil and tamped down with shovels and feet.

Next comes the fertilizer and the water from the irrigation system. I like to think of

Christianity as being the tree that is planted in the ground. The Word of God is

compared to water in certain passages of scripture. If we are watered, or that is to say if

we have the Word of God poured out on us, and our roots are in good soil — our roots

are in Christ — then the fruit which is produced through our lives becomes sweet and

good. A fruit tree does not have to strain to produce a crop. A fruit tree does what a

fruit tree does — it just naturally produces the fruit. I have seen this pattern repeated

year after year on the farm. Now and then, the crops fail due to hail or freeze. There

are many ways a crop can fail, but if the orchardist is persistent and consistent in his

work, sooner or later a crop will come. Just because a crop fails one year, on one

orchard, it does not mean that the orchard grower is going to abandon the farm or the

process of trying to produce fruit. Such are the ways of fruit growing and such are the

ways of the Holy Spirit.

128

Chapter 17

Here am I, Lord. Send Me!

One-and-a-half years later, on September 10, 1995, I again found myself sitting in

the front of the sanctuary — just as I had on that first day I began the class in homiletics.

This time, however, I was not dreaming of becoming a preacher. This time, I was

realizing the dream that had been with me for so long.

I heard Pastor Leland Griffin’s words ring out to the congregation. We come today

to ordain Edward Wayne Harris to ministry, and I thought “Hey, that’s me! I can’t believe

I did it!

Pastor Griffin went on to say, When I drove up to the church this morning and saw all

of these cars and the KJCT news van in the parking lot, I thought that speaks for itself — the

many lives that Ed has influenced. It is a testimony to Ed and we are enjoying right now what

is going to happen in Ed’s life! His ordination will be an opportunity for Ed. We ask God to

open up avenues of ministry for him. The scriptures provide for certain people to be accepted to

the ministry — to teach and to lead. The Holy Spirit desires that the church set apart those for

the work to which they have been called.

What is Ed being ordained to? Does he desire to be a minister of a church? We do not

ordain him to do only one specific thing — he will be preaching and counseling and practicing

the gifts of mercy. Ed has had a heart and desire for ministry. Sometimes he has pounded on

doors and they wouldn’t open. He has asked the Lord for ways to use him with his handicaps.

He doesn’t come to the ministry because he thinks more highly of himself. Ed comes because he

wants to serve the Lord! Ordination is going to open some doors for him. We are going to send

him out. The day may come when he is on foreign soil preaching the ministry. Wherever God

calls him to go, we will rejoice!”

When I heard the part about preaching on foreign soil, I gulped! That possibility

had never entered my mind — but then a lot of things have happened to me that I could

not have imagined when I began this odyssey. Then words came out of my mouth

unbeckoned — Here I am Lord, send me!

129

I had prepared for this day, this hour, this moment. I had imagined what I

would say and now it was time . . .

“I want to talk this morning about Moses’ call. God called Moses from a burning

bush. Now, God has a way of getting our attention. He got Moses’ attention by

burning a bush that wasn’t consumed. He got my attention through another way. But,

Moses offered God a feeble excuse when he said, ‘God, I can’t talk, I stutter. I can’t do

it.’ My excuse was feeble as well, for I said, ‘God, I can’t preach — I can’t be the

preacher of a church — I can’t do all of those things.’ But, you know, God doesn’t need

excuses. The only ability God asks of us is our availability! Our availability to Him and

He does the rest. Zachariah 4:6 ‘Not by might nor by power but by my spirit, says the

Lord.’ The Lord is the one who gets the job done — I’m just the vessel, and I’m willing

to be used by Him.

Each one of us has a cross to bear. God called me to salvation when I was seven

years old. I became disabled when I was ten years old. My family went through a lot of

grief over my disability and my disability is something that’s ongoing. But, we’re not

the only ones that have a cross to bear. Two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ bore a

cross. Think of him for a minute. Don’t look to me — look to Jesus. I want us to turn

our eyes to Jesus this morning. See His body, beaten, battered, and bruised, but not

broken. Jesus fulfilled Old Testament prophecy to the nth degree. That is one of the

reasons that I became so convinced of the Bible’s validity — because of prophecy’s

accuracy.

Before the foundation of the world was laid, the plan of salvation was in God’s

mind all along. For our salvation, Jesus came to earth to be born in human flesh, to live

the human life. He exchanged His life on the cross for our salvation. He died for our

sins! Can you believe that? That is God’s grace, and God’s grace calls us to himself.

God’s grace called me to himself. I praise God for his grace. Were it not for his grace, I

would not be alive today. If it were not for his grace, I couldn’t be in the Word today.

He has provided an opportunity for me — this half-blind quadriplegic spastic — to

study his Word. I tried to get into Bible school, but I couldn’t do that. Then, the Bible

school came to me! Isn’t that great? God will make a way. Whom God elects, he

protects. Whom he calls, he equips. We have a great God. Know that. Believe that. See

that. It is not ourselves, it is Him who gives the grace. It is not me that sits here to

preach to you — it is his grace through me.

130

I want to talk briefly about the man named Balaam who was called to go curse

Israel. He was a prophet of some sorts and was sent by Balak, the son of the king of

Moab. He was on his way to go curse Israel, to do something against God’s will, so God

zapped him with an angel in front of his donkey. It’s exciting — God has a sense of

humor. I know that he does because he chose me. Anyway, this donkey saw the angel

blocking his pathway but Balaam couldn’t see that angel. I have asked God to open my

eyes to see Him, to seek his Word, and if you here today without a vision, ask God to

open your eyes to see what He has for you. Sometimes we miss the obvious, looking

for more.

He has blessed me with a family and friends, and I am so thankful for them. He

has given me so much grace in that regard, I can’t thank Him enough. But, I sometimes

miss the most simple of miracles because I am not aware of what He is doing. I choose

to whine, whimper, and wimp out and not praise him. If we praise Him, His power is

released through praise.

So, getting back to this donkey by the roadside — he has been standing there a

long time, hasn’t he? — An angel of the Lord appeared before the donkey and Balaam

stopped in his tracks because the donkey couldn’t go past the angel. So, what did

Balaam do? He didn’t ask the Lord what he should do, he just began to beat his

donkey. Balaam did not see what God had for him because he wasn’t looking for it.

He wanted to go his own way and do his own thing. When we do that, we miss God’s

best for us. Now, this donkey knew better than Balaam did, so — get this! — the Lord

gave this donkey the power to speak! And, the donkey said to Balaam, “Hey, don’t

beat me up. I am just your servant.” Balaam didn’t even act surprised that his donkey

could speak, he just started talking to his donkey and said “Well, what is wrong with

you?” And, the donkey told him, “Don’t you know, there is someone blocking my

path?” Then, at that point, the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes and he saw the angel. When

you see the angel, better yet, when you see Jesus, your life has changed. Balaam

couldn’t follow through with his plan. When God touches your life, he changes your

life. So, if God can use a donkey, can God use me — a mere jackass up here in a

wheelchair? Sure! If God can use me, can he use you? Sure! Because, you see, it is not

us. It is God. It’s God who wills the work he has us to do. It is God who chooses.

There is a verse which has been part of my life for about four or five years now,

and it is still meaningful to me even to this day. In John 15 Jesus is speaking to his

disciples. He says, “You have not chosen me, I have chosen you and ordained you that

you should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain. That

131

whatsoever you ask of the Father, in my name, I will give it to you.” You see, He

ordains us. This ordination today is just a formality. It is Jesus who chooses. He is the

one who does the ordaining. It is not something done by man. He is the one who has

chosen me and chosen you and ordained you to go and bring forth fruit. So, are you?

Are you bringing forth fruit, or is your tree just sitting there souring on the branch? Are

your branches dying? If so, I encourage you to fertilize your life with the word of God

and the Holy Spirit, because that is our source. Without Him we can do nothing. But,

praise God, through Phillipians 4:13, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens

me. I can do all things that Christ called me to do because He will strengthen me. That

doesn’t mean I can get up and fly. That is not in His will for me. I can’t get up and

walk. That is not in His will for me. But, I can do all things he called me to do. Let’s get

that verse in context, okay?

The Lord is a God of mystery. Why he chose me, I will never know. I shouldn’t

be here before you today. I should be dead. By the grace of God, I am alive, and his

spirit has energized me to joy. He gives us all we need and, on the cross, Jesus gave us

His all. Jesus didn’t have to choose, but He did. Jesus did not have to even come to be

born as a man, but He did. Some people talk about whether he had a choice to sin, or

not. I don’t know. I am not going to say, but I believe that it is not important. The

important thing is He did not sin. Hebrews 4 tells us he is a high priest who can feel our

infirmities. Did you get that? He can feel how we feel! He was paralyzed on the cross.

He knows how I feel. He was blinded by tears and blood. He knows how I feel. He

knows our pain, he knows our frame, but he loves us anyway. He is a savior we can

depend on because he has been there and done that. He knows us and he loves us and

he cares for us in a way that no one else does. We miss the best by looking for the least.

Let us look for the best. Let us look to him because he was crucified on the cross and

buried in a tomb. He lived and died. That’s it? No! He rose again. Because he lives I

can live in Him. Praise God for what He has done!

So, don’t look to me up here as something special on a stick. I’m not. He is

special. He is the one we need to honor and glorify because he has called us and chosen

us. Don’t resist Him. He is calling us into service and let me explain what I mean about

service: I don’t believe that God will call anyone unless they pray. Every ministry of

any worth is begun in prayer. God doesn’t move unless we pray. Now God can move,

He has moved, but He chooses to use the prayers of His people to move. If you are not

praying, then why not? If you are not in the word of God, then why not? There is no

excuse for us. Moses gave God an excuse, but God will not hear excuses. The only

thing God will hear is, HERE AM I, LORD — SEND ME! He has given us everything

132

for love and good deeds. He has equipped us and called us. I tried to run from Him.

Doors have been closed on my fingers, and it has hurt, but God opens others doors. He

will open another door and the next door always opens wider, it seems. He is the one

who will get the job done. We need to be obedient to Him. Trust Him. Plan and pray,

and He will lead us in his light! Amen.”

133

Chapter 18

Maybe It Has Just Begun . . .

It came in the mail today . . . “A doctorate degree in the field of biblical studies

summa cum laude has been bestowed upon Edward Wayne Harris by Bethany Bible

College and Bethany Theological Seminary.” I plan to attend the formal graduation

ceremonies on campus later, but that will be only a ritual — today is the day that I will

savor!

With hands that were shakier than usual, I clutched the letter tightly as I wheeled

my chair out the door and headed toward my favorite place — the fruit orchard. I

stopped and took it all in as if it were the first time I had seen it. The field had just been

recently plowed and was now ready for planting. The smooth brown dirt stretched out

before me. At the end of the field, the trees were shooting out green leaves. Beyond the

trees, I could see the distant grandeur of Grand Mesa. Its majestic snow-covered beauty

loomed large in the distance. To my left were the rugged Bookcliffs and I turned to

look behind at the Colorado National Monument. From this perspective the red

sandstone appeared purple, evoking memories of the myriad times I had crossed over

its beautiful formations and gazed into the majestic canyon. I began to sing “America

the Beautiful” which destroyed the moment because I sing worse than a bullfrog with

the croup.

Returning to my house, I looked across the highway at the open field at the south

side of my family’s farm. The horses were grazing peacefully in the pasture. I thought

about the times I wheeled my chair across the highway to the horse pasture. I would be

so close to them that sometimes I could hear them chewing the grass as they ripped it

up out of the ground with their teeth. I looked around at the beauty which surrounded

me and I was reminded of the beauty in my life on every hand.

My eyes rose to the heavens and I cried out to my Father, “You did it! I can’t

believe I’m actually holding this in my hands, but you did it.” Then, with a laugh that I

knew He would understand, I added, “Now I really do feel smart.”

Pain in my body? Oh, yes, certainly so. It does tend to visit me on a daily basis.

Problems with the physical body will probably be with me until I am no longer on this

earth, but it is only a temporary problem — this problem of pain. I looked down at my

134

wheelchair. I spun it around gazing out at the west plot of ground which stretched out

into the distance. The sky was blue. Underneath the western horizon I saw another

mountain range. I thought again of how beautiful this place is. It is going to change

someday, I know. More buildings will be added around us eventually. Maybe this

farm won’t be here some day, but it is here now. It was here when I needed it the most

— as my anchor and my refuge.

I thought again of how blessed I have been. Here I am, unable to read print, yet I

have earned my doctorate. Unable to write with a pencil, yet I have managed to

hammer out this book through tape and transcription, editing, and re-editing. And

then, I thought of the life which has been represented in these pages. Mine. My life.

It is spring again. I heard the sound of the meadowlark’s soft trilling from the

field next to our house. Then, the blackbirds joined in with the pheasants honking

quietly in the field. These sounds thrill me even now. I have heard them every year of

my life and they are still like a new arrangement of an old symphony. They are a blend

of beauty which is only designed by God. He is the one who gives the composer the

ability to compose. He is the one who gives the musician the ability to play. He is the

one who gives talent to the author. He is the one who makes all things possible. This is

His world and He has allowed me to share a small part in a small place in a small space

in time. I am most blessed to have a God like that as my Lord and Savior.