Joni (13 page)

T
hat same summer I had met Don, Diana had met and fallen in love with a young man named Frank Mood. Diana and Frank were married in June, 1971, and moved into a house near our family ranch in Sykesville. About the same time, Jay invited me to come and live with her at the family ranch. Jay lived in the two-hundred-year-old stone and timber building that had once been slaves’ quarters well over a century ago, and that dad had remodeled. It was a quaint, two-bedroom cottage on a knoll overlooking the picturesque river valley. Living at the ranch would mean that I could spend time with Jay, Diana and Frank, or Kathy and Butch, and they all would share in caring for my needs.

When it was decided I would live with Jay, dad added a wing to her house. It was a big room, planned for the same kind of traffic and entertainment of friends as the house in Woodlawn. In the corner was a beautiful fireplace. The outside walls had picture windows to let in light and scenic beauty. The inner walls were lined with wood paneling he made by hand. The center of the big room was
dominated by a huge oak dining-conference table where all our activities seemed to center.

I had loved the ranch as a girl; I loved it even more now. It brought a sense of tranquillity and beauty into my life.

Donald liked the ranch too, and he spent more and more of his time there with me. Together we took trips to Ocean City, went on picnics, on hiking trips in the hills, and other outings. I never worried about going anywhere with him because I knew he could handle any emergency. He was strong enough to carry me by himself; he helped me eat and drink; he emptied my leg bag, and he could position me in my chair.

I was relaxed and at ease with him. He was never put off by the physical aspects of my handicap and never bothered by the wheelchair itself. He treated me normally; he joked, played, challenged, and provoked me as he would if I were not paralyzed.

If anyone can handle the physical and psychological problems of my handicap, Donald can,
I thought. The possibility of a man coming into my life, not as a brother in Christ, but as a romantic interest, both frightened and excited me.

Diana and Jay again warned me not to get romantically involved with Donald. Later, Diana told me of a similar “Dutch uncle” talk she had had with Donald on the same subject.

“Donald, I want you to know that Jay and I are concerned about what’s happening with you and Joni,” Diana had cautioned.

“Concerned?” he asked.

“Yes. You’re getting too serious. Have you thought about what this means to Joni?”

“Yes, I have,” Donald replied. “I’ve thought very seriously about what’s happening. I wouldn’t lead her on if I weren’t serious. Diana, I’m falling in love with Joni.”

“But—Donald—uh—usually when two people fall in love, they make plans to marry and spend the rest of their lives together.”

“Yes, I know. Diana, I know all the problems. I’ve thought and prayed about all the problems of such a relationship. I know
the consequences if we’d get married. But I can handle it. I’d marry her now if she’d have me!”

When Diana shared her conversation with me, she still wasn’t sure. “Joni, I’m really happy for you—but—”

“I know, Diana,” I reassured her. “I’m filled with mixed emotions too. On one hand, I’m sure I love him, and I believe, really believe, that if anyone can handle such a marriage, Donald can. On the other hand, I think it’s probably impossible for anyone to cope with it. I—I guess it’s that doubt I want to protect myself from.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, I guess I do. It’s scary. But, y’know, I like it!”

As our love grew, I kept weighing the significance of such a relationship.

“We’re talking about a terribly important commitment, Donald,” I said one day as we were driving to a softball game.

“I know. But we’re able to handle it, Joni. We’re both independent and resourceful spirits. We can do it.”

“But marriage—”

“Is no more out of the question than anything else. I could take care of you—bathe you, fix meals, clean the house. We could get a mobile home so everything is compact and easy to handle. When we can afford it, we could get something better—maybe even some cleaning and cooking help. Meanwhile, I could do it. I could take care of you.”

We pulled into the park and stopped near the ball diamond. “But I could never really be happy not being able to serve you fully as a woman. I want to fix you meals, care for your needs. I want to be able to express my love and tenderness fully as a woman.”

“Well, I’m a liberated male, I guess. My cooking and caring for you won’t detract from my masculinity. And as for sex, well—I’ve heard it said that it’s overrated,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, Joni. Sex isn’t that important. I can handle it.”

I was unsure. I felt that sex was, indeed, an important part of marriage. But as I weighed the problem, I thought,
Perhaps Donald
is right. After all, if he says he can cope with the problems, I believe him. I’ve learned to trust his judgment.
I also recalled the lectures given to paraplegics and quadriplegics at Rancho Los Amigos during my rehabilitation there. Doctors instructed us on the possibility of lovemaking—even the fact of being able to have children. Our bodies being paralyzed only meant we had no physical feelings; function was not impaired.

“But you know—I can’t feel anything,” I reminded Donald. “I don’t think that I could really be free to satisfy you. I’d feel trapped by my body, not able to express love and tenderness in ways that would meet your needs. We’d both be turned off by a lifetime of mutual frustration!”

“I said it’s not important.” Then he took my chair out and lifted me into it, continuing, “People live with worse problems. Besides, we’ll work it out.”

“I—I don’t know. I suppose. If you tell me that you can handle that kind of a marriage, I guess I believe you. I—I suppose I could commit myself to you.”

Donald smiled tenderly and nodded. Oblivious to the players on the ball diamond, he bent his face toward me in a kiss. This time, I felt his gesture was rich with mutual commitment and meaning. And this time, I returned his kiss with the deep feelings of giving and trust. My head swam with emotion and excitement as he wheeled me toward the bleachers.

This is too good to be true!
I thought.
Donald came into my life at exactly the time Diana, my best friend, is going out of my life for marriage and a family of her own.

God had brought me someone who really cared about me; someone who sincerely believed in the idea that we could spend the rest of our lives together.

“This is God’s highest plan for me,” I reasoned with Jay when I returned home that evening. “It’s that ‘most excellent thing’ He has reserved for my life! After all these years of patience, in accepting my lot as a handicapped person—and especially an unmarried
person—God is now rewarding my patience and trust. Donald is the answer to my prayers!”

I was deliriously happy. Even when I was on my feet, I’d never been this happy. We both talked excitedly about sharing our lives together, about serving Christ together.

As I thought of this and what God’s will on the matter was, I looked to Scripture. Everywhere I turned, verses leaped from the pages to confirm my thoughts.

“No good thing will the Lord withhold from those who walk uprightly.

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above.

“Donald is my ‘good thing,’ my ‘perfect gift’ from the Lord,” I told Jay.

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Joni. Don’t read in more than is there.”

I wrote a song expressing my thoughts and gave the poem to Donald:

I woke up this morning to the sight of light—

bright, yellow, mellow—

and I thought it only right

To praise my God for morning—and you.

Lying here, teasing my mind with sleep in mist-muted colors—

Smiling, I keep on

Praising my God for the evening—and you.

A trail of thoughts giving way to dreams of past and future—

that finally it seems that I

Praise my God for the present—and you!

I was so happy. I’d never imagined anyone would love me as a woman while I was in the chair. I suppose that’s why I was so thrilled and excited when it really happened.

Just before Christmas that year, Donald and I had our first argument. We’d been spending a lot of time together, and I began to become possessive. I was even upset when he had to work. I wanted to spend all my time with him; I wanted his life to center around me.

When pretty, young girls from church or youth groups came to visit, I was jealous when he laughed and chatted with them. I became envious that I wasn’t on my feet to compete for his attention.

It became more and more difficult for me to concentrate on God’s Word and have a devotional or prayer life. It was hard to discuss spiritual things after bickering about “why didn’t you come and see me last night?” As a result, my prayer life dwindled to nothing.

My feelings for him became almost all-consuming.

Donald reacted vocally and forcefully. He reminded me that I was acting foolish—like a possessive schoolgirl. I told him I was sorry, that I wouldn’t be so demanding of his time and affections; but for some reason, I’d still give in to these unreasonable fears.

Donald decided we both needed a vacation from each other, so he planned to take a trip to Europe in January, 1972. I resisted, taking his plans as a personal rebuke, as if he wanted to get away from me for some reason.

“I just think we need some time to ourselves, Joni,” he explained. “Don’t read anything else into it at all. Besides,” he added, “I’ve wanted to take this trip for a long time. The guys and I will probably never have an opportunity like this again.”

Dickie and Dave Filbert went to Europe with him. Inside, I had all kinds of unreasonable fears. For the first time, I was afraid for our relationship.
What if he leaves me? What if he really can’t cope? What if it doesn’t work out?
The trip to Europe lasted about three weeks. During that time I received letters and postcards from Switzerland, Germany, France, and other places they visited. The messages were all the same—that he missed me, loved me, and wished I was with him.

When he returned from Europe, he exploded into the house. “I missed you so much, I couldn’t wait to get back,” he exclaimed. He did come back—more loving and sensitive than ever.

Donald and I began talking about the possibility of my being healed. Until now, I’d accepted my situation. But my desire to be a complete woman led me to fiercely claim promises I felt the Lord had put in His Word for me.
After all,
I reasoned,
He allows us to have experiences of suffering and sickness to teach us. I’ve learned an enormous amount through my accident. But now that I’ve learned what He had for me to learn, He might heal me!
This was to be a new adventure of faith—the next phase of spiritual development for me.

Of course, physiologically, I could not be healed—my injury was permanent. Yet I knew nothing was impossible for God. Did He not, through Christ, heal all kinds of paralysis and sicknesses? He even raised the dead.

Even today there are miracles of healing. I’d heard about many cases of “permanent,” “incurable,” or “fatal” diseases or injuries being reversed.

Donald and I read James 5 and other passages, concentrating on the idea that it was God’s will for me to be healed. The Lord seemed to speak to us through John 14 and 15 and many other passages, and we prayed with renewed enthusiasm and thankfulness.

We believed that finding God’s will was a matter of circumstances, faith in God’s love, the assurance of His Word, and dependence on the power of His Holy Spirit. There was new optimism in the prospect of sharing our lives together.

“We’re absolutely convinced that God wants me healed!” I told Diana.

“Joni, this whole thing is getting out of hand. You’re twisting God’s arm—blackmailing Him. You’re not being realistic about this,” she replied.

“Diana, I’m surprised that you’d say that. I thought you’d have more faith than that. You must have faith that God really does want to heal me,” I said by way of rebuke.

Donald and I prayed that God would bring about the circumstances for us to trust Him. I began to inform my friends that God was going to heal me soon. Each time Donald and I got together we prayed it would be soon.

“Lord, we have faith. We believe Your Word that You want us healthy and able to better serve You,” prayed Donald.

“Thank You for the lessons in trust and patience that You have taught me through my suffering, Lord. And thank You for what You plan to do to bring glory to Yourself by healing me according to Your promises,” I added.

As we continued to pray about this matter, we planned to attend a church service where the format of the healing ministry outlined in James 5 could be followed.

Several friends drove me to the church. Elders came and laid hands upon me and anointed me with oil, according to the scriptural injunction. They read promises from the Bible and prayed for me.

With all the faith, devotion, and spiritual commitment we could discover through our own inner resources, Donald and I prayed and trusted.

I wasn’t anticipating immediate healing, but expected a slow recovery, since my rehabilitation alone had taken nearly two years. It was logical to think God would restore me gradually, I reasoned.

But after several attempts and many healing services, it became obvious that I wasn’t going to be healed. I was able to accept the reality of the situation, but I was frustrated—probably more for Donald than myself. Donald was quiet, yet intense. He seemed to be questioning everything, reevaluating all that had happened. It was awkward, especially for him, after pinning so much to that prayer of faith that went “unanswered.” His introspection was guarded, and he began spending more time away from me. I resented this, again jealous of his time.

When Steve came home on college break, he, Diana, and I discussed the possible reasons God did not answer our prayers.
“Why do you suppose He didn’t want you healed?” Diana asked.