When I returned from California, I stoically and glibly thanked God for whatever purpose He had in the fact that I wouldn’t get the use of my hands back, that I couldn’t ever marry Dick. But I was becoming cynical again and doubting the reality of Romans 8:28.
Mom and dad were glad to have me at home, and I was happy to be there. But inwardly I was bitter and resentful that God had not answered my prayers, had not given me my hands back.
Diana spent a lot of time at our house, taking care of my needs and trying to keep me encouraged.
“I know they told you at Rancho Los Amigos that you’d never be able to walk or use your hands again, but you can’t give up,” she urged.
“Why not?” I replied dully.
“You’ve got to work with what you have left.”
“I have nothing left.”
“Don’t give me that,” scolded Diana. “I saw people at Greenoaks and Rancho who were really bad off—blind, mute, deaf. Some even lost their minds—they were almost vegetables. They have nothing left, Joni. But you have your mind, your voice, your eyes, and your ears. You have everything you need. And you’re going to make them work for you if I have anything to say!” she said.
“We’ll see—we’ll see,” I told her.
Dick came to visit, and our conversations seemed awkward and strained. He had never really replied to my letter directly—he never said, “Yeah, Joni, you’re right. We can never get married because I can’t handle the problems and emotions involved with your handicap.”
Finally, one night, he broached the subject. “Joni, I don’t care if you get healed or not. If you aren’t healed and I’m fortunate enough to marry you, I’ll be the only person in the world to whom God gave the gift of a woman in a chair for a wife.”
“How can you say such a thing? The gift?”
“Sure. I look at you and your handicap as a special blessing.”
“A blessing?!” I interrupted.
“Yes, blessing—because God gives only good gifts,” Dick replied simply.
“No, Dickie. It’d never work. My paralysis—that’s a lot to handle. It’s almost too much for me, let alone you.”
“But sharing the burden would make it lighter for each of us.”
“That’s romantic, but unrealistic,” I told him.
Dick was silent. He did not want to accept what I was saying. He was envisioning what he wanted the outcome to be, not what it would be. Finally, his eyes ready to spill tears, he smiled and nodded. “You’re right, I guess. Maybe—I can’t deal with it. Maybe—I’m not up to it—” His voice trailed off.
Eventually Dick did start dating again. But often he’d bring his new girlfriends over to the house to meet me. In fact, some of his dates consisted of nothing more than trips to visit me. I withdrew into myself and the solitude of home. After being away so long, I appreciated the old house with all its pleasant memories. Yet for some reason, I couldn’t really feel at home there any more; I felt awkward in my own home.
This left me with eerie, anxious feelings—like the depression I felt trying to adjust during those nightmarish months after my accident.
“What’s the matter, honey?” dad finally asked.
“I—I don’t know, daddy. I’m just sad—depressed.”
Dad nodded.
“I don’t know if I can ever really adjust to being paralyzed,” I told him. “Just when I think I’ve got things under control, I go into a tailspin.”
“Well, you just take your time, Joni. We’ll do anything—anything at all—to help, you know that.” His sparkling blue eyes and smiling face radiated love and encouragement.
I sighed deeply, then said, “I guess the thing that affects me most is that I’m so helpless. I look around the house here, and everywhere I look I see the things you’ve built and created. It’s really sad to think that I can’t leave a legacy like you. When you’re gone, you will have left us with beautiful buildings, paintings, sculpture, art. Even the furniture you’ve made. I can never do any of that. I can never leave a legacy—”
Dad wrinkled his forehead for a moment, then grinned again. “You’ve got it all wrong. These things I’ve done with my hands don’t mean anything. It’s more important that you build character. Leave something of yourself behind. Y’see? You don’t build character with your hands.”
“Maybe you’re right, daddy.”
“Of course I am.”
“But why does God allow all this? Look at our family. We’ve had more than our share of heartbreak—first my accident, then Jay’s divorce, now—now little Kelly (my niece was dying of brain cancer). It’s so unfair,” I cried.
Daddy put his hands on my shoulders and looked straight into my eyes. “Maybe we’ll never know the ‘why’ of our troubles, Joni. Look—I’m not a minister or a writer—I don’t know exactly how to describe what’s happening to us. But, Joni, I have to believe God knows what He’s doing.”
“I don’t know,” I offered.
“Look, how many times have you heard somebody—we’ve done it ourselves many times—pray piously: ‘Lord, I’m such a sinner. I deserve hell and Your worst condemnation. Thank You for saving me.’ We tell God in one breath that we aren’t worthy of His goodness. Then, if we happen to run into some trouble or suffering, we get bitter and cry out against God: ‘Lord, what are You doing to me?!’ Y’see? I think that if we admit we deserve the worst—hell—and then only get a taste of it by having to suffer, we ought to try somehow and live with it, don’t you?”
“Do you think I deserved to be paralyzed—that God is punishing me?”
“Of course not, honey. That was taken care of on the cross. I can’t say why He allowed this to happen. But I have to believe He knows what He’s doing. Trust Him, Joni. Trust Him.”
“I’ll try,” I said halfheartedly.
As spring turned into summer, my emotions got no better. I’d expected a miracle from God at Rancho Los Amigos. I was convinced He’d give me back the use of my hands. When I didn’t regain my hands, I felt betrayed. God had let me down.
So I was angry at God. In order to get back at Him, I discovered a way to shut Him out along with the rest of the world. I went into moody, depressive, fantasy “trips.” I’d sleep late in order to dream, or I’d take naps most of the day to daydream and fantasize. By concentrating hard, I was able to completely shut out the present and reality.
I tried to recall each vivid detail of every pleasant experience stored in my memory. I focused all my mental energy on living these experiences again and again.
In these fantasies, I recalled every physical pleasure I had had—what it felt like to wear a soft pair of worn Levis, the warm splash of a shower, the caress of wind on my face, the feel of summer sun on skin. Swimming. Riding. The squeaky feel of saddle leather between my thighs. None of these simple pleasures was wrong in itself. But I used them to shut God from my mind.
One day, I was sitting in my wheelchair outside at the ranch, our family’s farm, in Sykesville. The friends who had come to visit me had saddled horses and gone on a trail ride. I was feeling sorry for myself, comparing my lot to theirs. Warm summer sunlight glimmered through the branches of big oak trees and danced in bright patterns on the lush grass underneath. I closed my eyes and visualized a similar day a couple years earlier. In my daydream, I was again with Jason, riding horseback together toward the forest, across the fragrant meadows, stopping in a deserted place. I relished memories of unrestrained pleasure, excitement, and sensual satisfaction—feelings I knew I had no right to enjoy then or relive now.
When the Holy Spirit convicted me, I rebelled even more. “What right have You to tell me I can’t think of these things? You’re the One who put me here! I have a right to think about them. I’ll never enjoy sensual feelings and pleasure again. You can’t take away my memories!”
But the more I thought of these and other experiences, the more withdrawn I became. I was frustrated and bitter and blamed God that these feelings meant so much to me.
I tried to savor and experience other pleasures and memories. When at a friend’s house beside their swimming pool, I treasured the experiences I used to have in the water. The liquid pleasure of wetness all around me, of slicing through the clear waters. Of bobbing up from the bottom and feeling the rush of fresh air pouring into my lungs and on my face. Of wet, stringy hair under my head as I lay sunbathing on the warm concrete apron. Of the warm tiny beads of water making small tickly lines while dripping down my drying arms and legs.
I was angry at God. I’d retrieve every tiny physical pleasure from my mind and throw it up to Him in bitterness. I couldn’t accept the fact—God’s will, they said—that I’d never do or feel these things again. Outwardly, I maintained a façade of cheerfulness. Inwardly I rebelled.
My fantasy trips became longer and more frequent. And when I ran out of memories that I felt would anger God, I created new ones. I developed wild, lustful, sexual fantasies that I believed would displease Him.
Diana came to live with us that summer. At first, she wasn’t aware of my “trips.” Then she sensed that my fits of depression were getting out of control, as if I were in a trance.
“Joni! Stop it! Wake up!” Diana screamed one day. She shook my shoulders violently. Slowly, I regained my sense of reality.
“W-what?”
“Joni! What’s wrong? I was talking to you, and you were just staring past me into space! Are you sick?”
“No. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone!”
“It’s not going to help you to avoid reality,” Diana said. “You’ve got to face up to the truth. Don’t shut it out. The past is dead, Joni. You’re alive.”
“Am I?” I replied cynically. “This isn’t living.”
Periodically she scolded me back from my fantasy trips, but, just as often, I’d leave again. I learned that taking a nap in a darkened room with a window air conditioner was my best “transportation.” The hum of the air conditioner was a hypnotic sound that shut out the world; soon I’d be in my trance, capturing past feelings and pleasures.
Finally I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere with my rebellious temper tantrums against God. I began to see that it was my way of sinning. Before my accident, sin consisted of the things I did. But now, there was no opportunity for me to give action to sinful thoughts. I began to see that sin was an attitude as much as an act. Before the action, the mind frames the thoughts and attitudes that become the basis for our rebellion against God. I saw that anger, lust, and rebellion—although “merely” attitudes—were sinful. Sin wasn’t just all the bad things I did, but an integral part of my makeup. Although there was no opportunity for me to physically rebel against God, I sinned nonetheless. It was a part of my nature.
I knew that I was being what Paul the apostle described as carnal as opposed to spiritual. I was in an impossible condition—unhappy and unable to please myself or God. “For the carnal attitude is inevitably opposed to the purpose of God, and neither can nor will follow his laws for living. Men who hold this attitude cannot possibly please God” (Rom. 8:7, 8).
Or themselves, I reminded myself. I saw that my fits of depression and flights into fantasy were doing nothing except confusing and frustrating me.
I did not understand what God was trying to show me, so I prayed: “Lord, I know now that You have something planned for my life. But I need help understanding Your will. I need help in knowing Your Word. Please, God, do something in my life to help me serve You and know Your Word.”