So humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and in his good time he will honor you. Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you.
1 PETER 5:6–7
Some people who have known me for a long time see me as some kind of courageous figure. I certainly haven’t seen myself that way—not for an instant—because I know too much about the real me. I also know how little I did to get through my ordeal.
Despite my own perceptions, friends and church members say they received encouragement by watching me as I progressed from a totally helpless state and gradually moved toward a fairly normal lifestyle. A number of individuals have said to me in the midst of their own difficult times, “If you could go through all you endured, I can go through this.”
I’m glad they’ve been heartened by my example, but I’ve had a great deal of difficulty accepting myself as a source of inspiration and courage. I don’t know how to cope with their admiration and praise, because I didn’t do anything. I wanted to die. How uplifting can that be?
When people tell me how inspiring I’ve been, I don’t argue with them, of course, but I remember only too well the time David Gentiles told me that he and others would pray me back to health. I lived because others wouldn’t let me die. Those praying friends are the ones who deserve the admiration.
Most of the time when people have that if-you-can-do-it attitude, I nod, acknowledge what they’re saying, and add, “I’m just doing the best I can.” And really, that’s all I did during the worst days. Sometimes “the best I can” was nothing but to endure. Even when I struggled with depression, it was still the best I could do. Maybe that’s what God honors. I don’t know.
By nature, I’m a determined individual, which I admit can sometimes be a first cousin to stubbornness. Yet many times I felt terribly alone and was convinced that no one else understood. And I still think that’s true. When our pain becomes intense and endures for weeks without relief, no one else really knows. I’m not sure it’s worthwhile for them to know what it’s like.
They care. That’s what I think is important.
After I came home from the hospital in the middle of May, I still had to sleep in a hospital bed until February 1990—a total of thirteen months. Even after sleeping in my own house, I had setbacks of various kinds or developed infections. Back to the hospital I’d go, and some of those trips, especially in the early days, were for life-threatening infections. Sometimes I stayed two weeks and other times three. On most occasions Eva drove me there, but I always came home in an ambulance.
After they initially released me from the hospital, church members kept telling me how good I looked “considering all that’s happened.” No one actually said the words, but I imagined them saying, “We prayed for Don. We can’t believe how well it turned out. We asked for him to live, and we asked for him to be better.” That is, I was a pitiful mess, but I was alive and that’s what they had asked for.
My twin sons, Joe and Christopher, were only eight at the time of the accident, and our daughter, Nicole, was twelve. One of the things that hurt me most during my recovery was the sense of pain my children had to cope with. They didn’t say a great deal, but I knew how they felt.
This is a handmade card from my son Joe, written to me in February 1989 while he was living with his grandparents. (I didn’t correct the spelling.)
Months later when I finally came home, most afternoons, Joe’s twin, Chris, came in from school and into the large living room where my bed was. Without saying a word, Chris would walk over and lay his head on my chest. I don’t know how long his head lay there, probably not more than a full minute.
He never said a word.
He didn’t need to. That simple gesture was enough. I felt so loved by my son.
After a minute or so, Chris would go into his room, get out of his school clothes, change into his play clothes, and then go outside and play. That’s the way he greeted me almost every day.
I know it was hard on him—really hard on him—and he expressed his grief in the only way he knew how.
Just six months after the accident, I was able to participate in a very special moment for Nicole.
Southern Baptists have mission organizations for young people. The most well-known are the Royal Ambassadors for boys and Girls in Action (GAs) and Acteens for girls. As soon as she was old enough, Nicole participated in GAs and Acteens. She fulfilled all the requirements, such as Scripture memorization, various service projects, and mission trips. When she was fourteen, she learned she would be awarded the honor of Queen with Scepter at a coronation ceremony at South Park Baptist Church in June 1989.
This award is the pinnacle of Acteen participation and is presented during a church ceremony. Her receiving the award was a tribute to her own utter determination. During the time she threw herself into those activities, she wasn’t able to live at home. Our friends Suzan and Stan Mauldin had opened their home to her, and she lived with them. Nicole received no emotional or physical support from me, because I was barely surviving in the hospital. She received little support from her mother, because Eva’s
Don attends Nicole’s Girls in Action coronation.
life consisted of leaving school every afternoon and rushing to the hospital, where she stayed with me until she went home to bed.
The challenges made us all the more proud of Nicole.
One of the traditions associated with the coronation is that fathers escort their daughters down the aisle. Brothers, if the girls have any, follow and carry the crown and scepter.
Because of the timing of South Park’s annual coronation, there was great doubt about my being able to be present, much less escort her down the aisle.
I’m grateful that my doctors discharged me from the hospital in time to be present for the coronation. I really wanted to be there. This wasn’t her wedding, but it was the biggest thing so far in her young life, and I wanted to share the moment with her.
I was in a wheelchair, and Nicole held my arm as I rolled down the aisle. Chris and Joe walked behind us, carrying her crown and scepter on pillows. They also helped roll my chair down the aisle. I wore a suit coat and tie (my first time since the accident) along with my warm-ups split down the sides to allow for my Ilizarov.
Not only was Nicole absolutely elated that her daddy could be present for her extremely important occasion, she was thrilled that her father could “walk” her down the aisle.
Tears filled my eyes as I maneuvered down the aisle. I heard others sniffling. But I also knew that we wept tears of joy over this wonderful moment in Nicole’s life.
The doctors sent me home initially, I believe, because they thought I’d recover faster in an environment with family around me. It may also have cost a lot less for me to be home. I’m not sure, but I was glad to be out of the hospital. Insurance didn’t pay for any of my treatment. The bill was covered at first by workmen’s compensation, and ultimately the State of Texas, because a federal court found them at fault.
Still, being in my own home wasn’t much easier for me or my family, especially Eva. Every day someone had to give me shots. I had to have physical therapy treatments—all done to me and for me at home. Our living room looked like a hospital room. I did feel better being out of that sterile environment. Just being around familiar things lifted my spirit. I enjoyed being able to look out the window at my neighborhood or having people drop in to see me who didn’t wear white uniforms.
The medical team sent my bed and a trapeze contraption—just like what I had used at the hospital. Nurses visited every day; physical therapists came every other day.
Some of the sweetest memories I have are of the kind people who simply spent each day with me while Eva went back to work. When church members heard that she had to return to teaching or lose her job, they decided to do what they could.
Ginny Foster, the senior pastor’s wife, organized a group of people to stay with me each day. Ginny organized what she laughingly called the “Don Patrol”—mostly women from the church, along with a few retired men.
It was about seven hours from the time Eva left in the morning until she returned. My sleep habits depended on when I could fight the pain no more and would pass out. But gradually, a pattern began to emerge. I would generally go to sleep about two or three o’clock in the morning and wake up around ten. The Don Patrol arrived about nine o’clock while I was still asleep. They either prepared lunch for me or brought it with them.
Often I would awake to find a charming woman knitting at the end of my bed. Or perhaps an older man would be reading the Houston Chronicle. He’d lower the newspaper and grin at me, “Good morning. Do you need anything?”
The parade of sweet faces changed every day. Although the volunteers were different, the goals remained the same: Take care of Don and keep him company.
As I lay in bed day after day, I realized how much others had done for us. While I was still hospitalized, friends from the Alvin church had packed up our furniture and moved us to a new house, where I could be on the ground level with no stairs to worry about.
During the day, I would look through the patio window from my “hospital room.” Often I spotted high schoolers Brandon and Matt Mealer and their buddy Chris Alston mowing our lawn. Chris arranged to borrow our van one night and surprise me by taking me to a movie. I don’t even remember what the movie was, but I will never forget his thoughtfulness. Once when our fence blew down during a windstorm, it was back up before we could call anyone to help. Only God knows all the kindnesses shown to us during my recovery.
As I began to stir in my bed each morning, my “keeper” would get up and bring me a toothbrush and a pan to brush my teeth and wash my face. I’d have a glass of juice held to my lips and later a huge lunch ready for me.
After feeding me, washing up, and making sure I was as comfortable as my physical condition would allow, they all asked the same question: “Is there anything else I can get for you before I leave?”
My answer was always the same: “No, thanks.” I would muster what I hoped was my best smile. It probably wasn’t, but they always smiled back.
“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
The capacity for sacrifice and service that human beings have for one another knows no bounds. With all our faults, surely God must have meant that the kindnesses shown to me during my injury and recovery were paramount examples of us being created in his image.
Within an hour or so after my daily Don Patrol angel quietly exited, the door would open, and Eva would enter from a long day at school. She always gave me a big smile and kissed me.
“Are you all right?” she would ask.
“I’m fine,” I would say, meaning it.
I couldn’t put my feelings into words then, but the assurance that I had been visited by an angel from the Don Patrol caused my spirit to soar.
For months after I came home, good-hearted members of the Don Patrol transported me back and forth for water therapy, which was done near our home in Alvin. During the first thirteen months, if I wasn’t inside the hospital, I was lying in the hospital bed at the house. For months, I probably wasn’t out of the bed more than five minutes a day except for therapy. Some days I didn’t even get out of bed.
The worst part is that once I was in the hospital bed, I was completely incapacitated. I couldn’t get up or do anything for myself. Without the help of the therapist, I never would have sat up or been able to move on my own again.
Slowly, gradually, I learned to walk again. The first day I got out of bed on my own, I took three steps. I slumped back onto the bed, feeling a wave of exhaustion overwhelm me. But I smiled. I had walked. Three steps sounds like so little, and yet I felt a powerful sense of accomplishment.
So much of recovery from a trauma of this magnitude has a striking similarity to training a child in infancy. I had been helpless for such a long time that when I could finally go to the bathroom by myself, it felt like a remarkable accomplishment. Walking again was a stark reminder of what we all take for granted every day as we talk, move, and live.
When I could walk again, it was not only a singular accomplishment but a tribute to hundreds of medical people who worked tirelessly to help me. It was also a tribute to my friends and family who believed in me, although they couldn’t have known just how difficult it would be for me to put one foot in front of the other.
While I suppose walking represented a certain triumph of will, it also meant I could begin to live in relative normalcy. I often thought of the last night at Trinity Pines when J. V . Thomas and I took our walk around the camp. That was my last normal walk ever. For many months no one was sure I’d ever walk again. For a long time, taking just three shaky steps seemed like climbing Mount Everest.
“I did it!” I shouted to the silent room. “I walked! I walked.”
Taking those first steps at home on my own remains one of the best moments of my recovery. Those few steps convinced me that I was getting better. Now I had goals to work toward. I had gone through the worst part of the recovery. I knew I would continue to improve. Each day I took a few more steps. By the end of the week, I had made a complete circle of the living room.
When Eva came home and watched me demonstrate my daily progress, her smile made me feel as if I had won a marathon. She reacted with absolute joyful delight the afternoon I showed her that I could walk throughout the house all by myself.
A week after I came home from the hospital, I had decided I wanted to go to church on a Sunday morning.
In retrospect, it was premature, but I felt a burning desire to be back with people I loved and to worship with them. With the help of a small group, we planned for them to help me get there. In case I couldn’t make it, we didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so we decided not to announce it to the congregation.
By then I could sit in a wheelchair—as long as someone was there to lift me out of bed and into it—but I still couldn’t stand up. Six friends from church came to our house and took the seats out of one of the church vans. At the church, they had constructed a ramp so they could roll me up to its doors.
I kept thinking of all the work I had laid on them, and several times I started to apologize, but they assured me it was their pleasure.
Then I remembered Jay’s words. My family and friends saw me the first day of the accident. I never saw what I looked like. They endured the shock and the fear. They had to come to grips with the possibility of my death or my long-term disability. In some respects, this ordeal was more difficult for my family and friends than it was for me. They loved being able to help me. In a way, this was part of their own recovery, and they were glad to be able to do something special for me.
Yet, as much as I wanted to attend the worship service that morning, it was still hard to let them do everything for me. I felt totally helpless and absolutely dependent on them. As I realized that once again, I smiled.
“Thank you,” I said and then allowed them to take care of me.
They carefully put me into the van, drove me to the church, and pulled up at the side door. When one of the men in the van opened the door, church members on their way into the sanctuary saw me.
“Look! It’s Pastor Don!” someone yelled.
I heard cheering and clapping as people stood around and made way for the men to wheel me up the ramp.
Just then, everything turned chaotic. People rushed toward me. Several cheered. It seemed as if everyone wanted to touch me or shake my hand. I could hardly believe the fuss they made over me.
Finally someone wheeled me inside and stopped my chair in front of the platform near the church organ. It wasn’t possible to lift me up.
By then the entire congregation had become aware that I was in front of the sanctuary. I smiled as I thought, It’s only taken me five months to get from the conference at Trinity Pines back to church. I may be slow, but I’m faithful.
Just then someone whispered in my ear, “We want you to say something to the congregation.” He got behind me and steered me toward the center of the sanctuary, right in front of the pulpit.
By then exhaustion had begun to seep in. It had probably nagged at me all along, but I had been so determined to get back to church, I refused to admit how tired I felt. I had been out of bed more than two hours. That was the longest time I had been out of bed up to that point, and also the longest time I had spent in a wheelchair.
In that moment I realized I had been foolish in wanting to come, because I wasn’t up to the physical demands on my body. My stubbornness had overestimated my endurance.
Perhaps just as bad, I became completely overwhelmed at the congregation’s loving response. I didn’t know if I could speak. What could I say after all those weeks of absence and all I’d been through?
While I was still trying to figure that out, someone thrust a microphone in my hand. As I clutched it, I kept thinking, You people really have no idea how little I contributed to my recovery.You see it as a triumph. I see it merely as survival.
Just then spontaneous applause broke out. I had expected them to be glad to see me; I had not been prepared for the avalanche of praise to God. Every person in that building stood, and the applause began—and it kept on for a long time. I finally waved them to stop.
As I stared at them, I felt guilty about their applause and excitement. I couldn’t believe those people were applauding me. If they only knew, I thought. If they only knew.
Then God spoke to me. This was one of the few times in my life when I heard a very clear voice inside my head.
They’re not applauding for you.
Just those words, but it made a difference and I could speak. Finally, I had it straight. They were giving thanks to God for what he had done for me. God had brought me back from death to life once again. I relaxed. This was a moment to glorify God. This wasn’t praise for me.
I still had to wait for what seemed like a long time until the applause ceased. I spoke only four words. Anyone who was there that glorious day can tell you what they were: “You prayed. I’m here.”
The congregation erupted in spontaneous applause again. If I had said anything else, I’m sure they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
I couldn’t say it, but I believed then—and still do—that I survived only because a number of people wanted me to. They were relentless, passionate, and desperate, and they believed God would hear them. People prayed for me who had never seriously prayed before; some who hadn’t uttered a word of petition in years cried out to God to spare me. My experience brought people to their knees, and many of them had changed in the process of praying for me to live.
When I did live, those same people—especially those who hadn’t been in the habit of praying—said the experience revolutionized their lives. In some instances, individuals I had never met—from Cottonwood, Arizona, to Buffalo, New York—heard my story second-, third-, and fourthhand. Over the next three years, people would approach me and say, “I saw you on a video interview. You’re the man! I prayed for you.” Or they heard one of the audiotapes of my testimony distributed by my church and would say, “You just don’t know what it means. God heard our prayers, and we’re so happy you lived.”
To some individuals, I’m not really a person but a symbol. For them, I represent answered prayer. They may remember my ministry at South Park Church or even some of the messages I preached, but what they remember most is that they sought God’s face in deep, sincere, earnest prayer. They pleaded for me to survive, and I did. I don’t know what to make of it, except to say that this is something outside of and beyond me.
I think I’m also a human response to some of the questions people wanted answered. Since I began to tell others about my experience in heaven, I can’t begin to count the people who have come to me and asked such questions as, Is heaven real? What is heaven really like? Or they’ll ask specific questions about the praise or the streets of gold. Someone seems to always mention a recently departed loved one.
Just to know that I’ve been there and come back to earth and am able to talk to them seems to bring deep comfort to many. Sometimes it amazes me.
Others look at the marks on my body even today and say, “You’re a miracle because of all you went through. You’re a walking miracle.”