Snapshots in My Mind

The end of 1991

Snapshots in my mind. Clear. Sharp. In full color, sound, smell and emotion.

I'm standing in our farmyard. My arm is resting on the back of our tame rooster. I'm very small. I love the outdoors.

I'm five years old. I'm standing at the top of the stairs. Going down for breakfast.
My legs hurt. They're weak. My head hurts. What's wrong?
I call out. No one hears me. My parents hear me fall the last few steps.
I'm lying on the couch. They are calling the doctor. My sister and brothers are very quiet.

I'm wrapped in a blanket. It's snowing. Dad is carrying me. The hospital isn't far now.
"Hurry, Daddy. I can't breathe."

I'm awake. Everything is white around me. How long have I been asleep? I can't move.
Two people come through the white curtains. They have masks on.
"Hi, honey." It's Mom and Dad. I try to talk. One. Word. Per. Breath.

I'm in a two-bed room. No more white curtains. Lots of kids are sick like me.
I hear the Sunday School lady in the room across the hall.
I love her flannel graph stories about Jesus. I know He is helping me.
I holler across, "Tell her not to forget me."
My lung are stronger! I'm starting to move my hands and feet too.

I'm thirteen - walking with the help of full leg braces and crutches. I smile.
I know I'm going to be a missionary. God can do it.

I'm sitting on a flat rock. Nineteen years ago the Kimyals butchered their last cannibalistic victim on this rock. Now I sit chatting with them. In their own language. Fluently.
I can't take in enough of their beautiful mountain world.
I smile at my friends. Eighteen years here. What a privilege! Thank you, Lord.

But I feel change coming. Could it be something to do with the weakness and pain I've been feeling in my legs?

Spokane, August 1991. Cheri is driving me home from the doctor's office.
Through tears I tell her. I can't live in Irian Jaya any more. I have Post-Polio Syndrome.

Two weeks later. Suddenly my arms go weak and start to ache. Deep, fiery pain.
I've "lost" them, too.

I'm writing this. My arm is tired. Achy. I'm tired all over. Yet joyful. Eager Anticipating learning how to manage this disease. Slowing down my body's decline.
Getting new equipment that will enable me to write.
To do what God has for me next. Discovering what that is.
It will take patience. Daily discipline. Creative use of a smaller store of strength and energy.

I learned it when I was five. Jesus is helping me. Life is good. God is good.