I cannot count how many times people have told me that they have prayed for me. Or how many times they've said, "God has a plan." I can hardly fathom how many times I've thought prayers and God's plan were just a copout… but that's changed.
We have never been a churchgoing family. My mom has a strong faith, my dad hardly ever talks about it, so I couldn't tell you his true feelings, and I… I have always had a weak faith. And at times, none at all. I grew up believing in God like everybody else, but that was about it. I prayed occasionally in my youth, but it was rare that I truly remembered to. And then when I was 16, everything changed.
My mom had a high school and college friend named Lenora, or as we called her, Lenny. And yes, I say "had" because she is no longer with us. And her death was a terrible turning point for me.
For as long as I can remember, I have always loved children. But there was something special about Lenny's son Ben. I have never met a child so bright, so happy, so full of life. I have fond memories of him, like when he fell asleep in my lap on the little train in Zilker Park, when I was only 12, and he couldn't have been more than five. It was the first time I had met him, but he trusted me enough by the end of the day to fall asleep in my lap, and even to a 12-year-old me, that seemed profound. Then there was the time at the Hyatt Resort where I played in the Lazy River with him and his sister, carrying him on my shoulders, dunking him in the water, and just generally having a grand time. He has always held a special place in my heart.
As I mentioned, when I was about 16, things changed for me. Lenny, this beautiful, soft-spoken, kind, overall wonderful woman and mother of my favorite kid was diagnosed with cancer, and one that she couldn't beat. I remember we went to visit her in Houston, and she couldn't get up from where she lay on the couch. Her husband sat close by, attentive to the point of not noticing my parents and myself sometimes, ready to help her with everything. It was a depressing scene. Lenny was pale in spite of her makeup, and thin, her bones poking out of her clothes. It's something I will never forget, never get out of my mind's eye, even though I never want to see it again.
But to me, that was far from the worst part. The worst was Ben. This vibrant boy, once so full of life, was dull, quiet, beaten. He wouldn't make eye contact, he slouched around the room, sticking to the edges as though to remain unseen, and only moving to the center of the room when his mom asked for a glass of water, and he obligingly brought it. Then he perched on the edge of the couch for a bit, sitting beside her, before he left again. He did not speak to me, or look at me, through the entire visit.
When I later found out that Lenny had passed away, and left her bereaved and now slightly unstable husband in charge of her two beautiful children, her wonderful Ben, I was more than heartbroken. I cursed God, for how could a loving God do something this horrible? How could he have let this woman, this special woman, suffer and then leave her family behind, leave her family forever changed, and not for the better? I began to ask the age-old question, which had not previously occurred to me: "Why do bad things happen to good people?" And no one could satisfactorily answer this question. I searched for an answer, but was unable to find one. And so I turned my back on God, as I thought he had turned his back on Lenny. On Ben.
I remained this way for the next six years of my life. I did not pray, I did not think about God, I thought religion was a scam, I became cynical about believing, about having faith. So young to be so cynical. And yet I was.
And when I had my accident, it only got worse. The God I had ignored I now hated, and railed against Him, wondering how this could possibly happened to me. What had I done to deserve this? I had been a good person. I had done all the right things with my life. Was this some kind of karma, some twisted fate? And if that was so, how could I believe that God loved me?
I was angry for a while, and then I turned ambivalent. I believed there was a God, because the design I see in nature, in the world, made it difficult to deny. But then I came to believe that He had merely created all, and then turned his back on his creations, moving off somewhere far distant, and not caring. So I didn't care either. When people said they prayed for me, I smiled and thanked them, and when they told me that God had a plan for me, I would just smile and nod, not really knowing what to say. But while I appreciated their efforts, I didn't believe in them, and I thought they were a little blind for not realizing that God was long gone.
But then something changed. My life felt so empty, meaningless. I frequently found myself with less and less to do, less and less important in controlling my own life. I felt lost, and alone. I began to once again contemplate God, and wonder if He was really there, and if so, what I could do to connect, to believe. But I just couldn't make myself take that leap of faith.
And then I met Ryan.
Ryan is a young man not much older than I am at 25. His life has been significantly different from mine. At a very young age he was diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD), the most common type of muscular dystrophy, which affects 1 in 5000 boys from a young age. There is currently no cure, and life expectancy is usually around 25. As of yet, no one has survived it
But you would never know that Ryan had this hanging over his head. Because he never acts like it. Instead he acts like a normal, good guy, albeit one who is in a wheelchair and has to use of ventilator to assist his breathing occasionally. Ryan told me what he had early on, but I didn't realize it was a more nasty version of muscular dystrophy than I had ever heard of. When I read about the disease in more detail on Ryan's website (as he is an advocate for other boys and young men with DMD, raising awareness in the hopes to find a cure for all of them), I began to sob uncontrollably. This news twisted my heart even more than it had been twisted for Ben. But amazingly enough, this time, I did not question God. I only questioned myself and my faith. Because Ryan has the biggest faith of anyone I've met, adversity or no.
And it was almost as if he tore down all the last barriers I had erected between myself and God. Because if he could have such faith, if he could take that leap, so surely could I. And I did. I accepted Christ, I accepted what it happened me, and it changed everything.
My depression lifted. I came to truly believe that God does not put something on your plate that you can't handle, which my mom had been saying since my accident. My spirits were lifted, I felt vindicated, and I felt loved. I no longer felt empty.
Not two days later I happened to hear a sermon called "Dropped but not forgotten." It spoke of how people thought they had been dropped by God, thought He had turned His back on them, when in reality He had not, and instead was fighting your battle for you. The sermon made me cry about 12 different times, hitting home and pinpointing all of my doubts, and brushing them aside. I have never been able to brush them aside before. But my faith in God seemed to make anything possible.
I don't know if I'll ever be healed. I don't know if that's my path. But I do believe now that I will come out of this tragedy with more than I had before, even if it means I can't walk again. Things in my life are looking up. I've made new local friends. I may be getting a job soon. I plan to go to grad school soon. And I plan to tell many people that God has been looking out for me my whole life, and has helped me greatly since my accident, even if I was too close minded and angry to realize it at the time. But I realize it now. I believe. I have faith. And I hope by reading this, you might, too. Because if I can take that leap, so can you.
Until next time. And so we go!
