In February, 1970, my niece Kelly died of the brain tumor that had kept her in constant pain for a year. Her death underscored for me the importance of each individual soul.
I was just beginning to get a handle on a positive spiritual frame of reference myself, so Kelly’s progress in faith, though she was only five, was encouraging and helpful to me as I saw the reality of God’s love and power at work in her tiny life. Her tragedy brought us closer as a family and closer to the Lord.
We had all accepted the inevitability of Kelly’s death, and we had peace about it; yet, this did not mean that the agony of losing her did not take its toll on us or that we did not ever ask, “Why, God?”
Kelly’s mother, my sister Linda, suffered the most. Soon after Kelly became ill, Linda’s husband left and divorced her. This left her with two sons and Kelly to support, along with facing Kelly’s death. Her world seemed to be collapsing around her, and for a long time she didn’t want to face it.
Through Kelly’s death and my own paralysis, I was learning that there is nothing but unhappy frustration in trying to secondguess God’s purposes. Why God? Why did Kelly die? Why was I paralyzed? Why is someone else alive and healthy? There was no reason apart from the overall purposes of God.
We aren’t always responsible for the circumstances in which we find ourselves. However, we are responsible for the way we respond to them. We can give up in depression and suicidal despair. Or, we can look to a sovereign God who has everything under control, who can use the experiences for our ultimate good by transforming us to the image of Christ (2 Cor. 3:18).
God engineers circumstances. He used them to prove Himself as well as my loyalty. Not everyone has this privilege. I felt there were only a few people God cared for in such a special way that He would trust them with this kind of experience. This understanding left me relaxed and comfortable as I relied on His love, exercising newly learned trust. I saw that my injury was not a tragedy but a gift God was using to help me conform to the image of Christ, something that would mean my ultimate satisfaction, happiness—even joy.
Steve, in one of our fellowship study sessions, compared my life to the experience of the apostle Paul: “I want you to know, my brothers, that what has happened to me has, in effect, turned out to the advantage of the gospel” (Phil. 1:12).
I reflected over this concept one evening as Steve crossed the room to stir the fire in the fireplace. He reminded me, “Joni, what is happening to you will advance God’s cause! Paul had his prison chains; you have your chair. You can rejoice in suffering because He is allowing you to suffer on His behalf.” Steve then sat down and stretched his frame into the overstuffed chair, thumbing through his Bible. “‘You are given, in this battle,’” he read, “‘the privilege not merely of believing in Christ but also of suffering for his sake’” (Phil. 1:29).
It was exciting to think that what had happened to me could indeed “turn out to the advantage of the gospel.” I began to share my faith with more people in a positive context, and I saw that the Word of God could not be bound and chained, even if I was (2 Tim. 2:9).
Now, as each successive problem arose, it came in a context I understood. I merely trusted God. I reminded myself that all things come into my life according to Andrew Murray’s formula: by God’s appointment, in His keeping, under His training, for His time. And I had His promise that He would not heap upon me more than I could bear.
As I began to see that circumstances are ordained of God, I discovered that truth can be learned only through application.
In 1 Thessalonians, I read, “In everything give thanks.” But sometimes I didn’t want to give thanks. Emotionally, it was something I just didn’t feel like doing. Yet, I could give thanks with my will, if not my feelings.
“After all,” I reasoned one day to Steve, “for two years, I woke up every morning in a hospital. If for no other reason than that, I can give thanks that I’m no longer there.”
So I began a habit of giving thanks, even when I didn’t feel thankful. After awhile, a curious thing happened. I began to feel thankful!
“Your paralysis could even be a blessing,” observed Steve during one of our times together.
“A blessing?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know about that,” I admitted. “I’ve come a long way just to accept my accident as something God has allowed for my ultimate good. But I don’t really feel it’s a blessing yet.”
During the weeks ahead, I read more and more on the subject of God’s sovereignty. It truly was a reassuring doctrine. As its light flooded my intellect and mind, it brightened my spirit and self-image. I felt secure, safe. God had control of everything in my life.
That spring, Steve and his parents went to a seminar where the value of “self was explained in biblical terms. Steve shared these concepts with me one afternoon when he stopped by with some books he wanted me to read.
“Joni, you must know by now the value God places on you,” he said as he plopped them on the table.
“Yes, I suppose so. Why?”
“Well, I think you’re still hung up on your self-image.”
“Hung up on my self-image? What do you mean?”
“You’re always putting yourself down—always on the defensive,” he replied.
Steve was right, of course. I’d still look at healthy, active people—attractive people—enjoying themselves around me. Everyone I compared myself to came out best. I’d even lose out when I compared myself to a mannequin!
“But that’s the same for everyone if we let society determine our value,” Steve explained as he sat down on the piano bench. “We always lose when we evaluate ourselves according to someone else’s ideas or standards. And there are as many standards as there are people. A jock measures you by your athletic ability; a student by your brains; a steady by your looks. It’s a losing battle,” he said, striking a sour piano chord for added emphasis. “We have to forget about what people say or think, and recognize that God’s values are the only important ones.”
It was true. God knew that I had hands and feet and arms and legs that did not work. He knew what I looked like. And none of these things really mattered. What counted was that I was His workmanship created in His image. And He wasn’t finished with me (Eph. 2:10).
In the days that followed, I thanked Him for “me”—whatever I was in terms of mind, spirit, personality—and even body. I thanked Him for the way I looked and for what I could and could not do. As I did, the doctrine of His sovereignty helped everything fall into place, like a jigsaw puzzle.
Not only was there purpose to my life at this point, but there was an iceberg of potential as well—10 percent above the surface, 90 percent below. It was an exciting thought—an entire new area of my life and personality not even developed yet!
“Joni, I learned this concept from an illustration Bill Gothard (Institute in Basic Youth Conflicts) uses. He says our lives are like paintings that God is making. Often we jump off the easel, grab a brush, and want to do things ourselves. But when we do this, we only get a bad copy of the masterpiece He intended for our lives.”
Steve added to this thought. “Joni, your body—in the chair—is only the frame for God’s portrait of you. Y’know, people don’t go to an art gallery to admire frames. Their focus is on the quality and character of the painting.”
This made sense. I could relax and not worry so much about my appearance. God was “painting” me in just the perfect way so I could enhance the character of Christ within. This gave a whole new perspective to the chair. Once it had been a terrible burden, a trial for me. Then, as I saw God working in my life, it became only a tool. Now, I could see it as a blessing. For the first time in my paralyzed life, it was indeed possible for the wheelchair to be an instrument of joy in my life.