by Nancy French
I never sat down with Ryan or his family to have an in-depth theological discussion. But I learned a great deal about God’s love by witnessing Ryan’s family and their church wrap their arms around his sister during this terrible time. It was much more powerful than any sermon could be.
When her cancer went into remission, I considered it a miracle.
Ryan’s mom is the director of spiritual formation at a church, and I think she understood right away that I was searching to understand and grow in my faith. For my birthday she gave me a daily devotional that included a prayer and a Scripture reading for every day of the year. Each morning as I opened that book, I read about God’s goodness and provision. She gave the same book to Ryan. Though we were two hours apart, reading the same devotional each day kept us connected.
As Ryan and I talked about our faith, God became more real to me. Maybe this sense of God’s presence was just a natural by-product of the way I had been raised. My parents had faith and were absolutely rock-solid about doing what is right, but I realized that I could also learn something from Ryan and his family. Like my parents, Ryan’s family didn’t preach to me. However, as I spent time with them that summer, I noticed that they just oozed peace, joy, and love, even though they were living through the worst time of their lives. They were always positive and taught me to leave everything to God, because when we try to manage everything on our own, it’s too much for us to handle. That’s when we realize that God is the one who’s in control and that he does a better job of it than we do.
As I reflected on the Bible, my faith began to deepen. When I was a little girl, I loved going to vacation Bible school at Lutheran Church of Hope, and my parents and I had attended services there occasionally as I was growing up. Now we began going more regularly. During a service in the church’s early days, my mom recalls the pastor tearfully confiding that he wasn’t sure if the church was going to succeed. Today it is the largest church in the city.
Lutheran Church of Hope’s size is not what appeals to me, though. Instead, it is the feeling I get whenever I attend on a Sunday morning. No matter how many services I’ve missed because of out-of-town engagements or training, when I return I feel like I never left. Pastor Mike and the leaders welcome everybody—from the polished professional who comes in a suit to the harried mom who shows up in sweats.
My church is a safe place for someone like me who grew up feeling embarrassed because I had no idea who my friends were talking about when they mentioned people in the Bible. The church leaders don’t expect anyone to recite names and dates; their concern is that each person grows in faith and in love for one another and for Christ. They want us to understand that God’s love for us doesn’t depend on anything we might do.
Ironically, I had come home from Dancing with the Stars convinced that I needed to find a new identity for myself. Thanks to my parents, Ryan’s family, and my church, I realized that my true identity comes from something other than my accomplishments and that lasting happiness will never be found in another medal or trophy. True and lasting joy, I discovered, is the by-product of living in the countercultural way described by the apostle Paul two thousand years ago: “Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love” (Ephesians 4:2).
This type of life might not get much airtime in the glittery, highly choreographed world of Hollywood, but by early 2010, I was discovering that my contentment began and ended with simple things like faith, hope, and love.
Lesson I’ve Learned
Now that I’ve opened up my heart, I’ve seen what good can come from finding someone who loves you for who you are—not for titles, fame, or glamour. Nothing brings more peace and joy than being loved for who you are.
Chapter 29
Wipeout
We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.
—Helen Keller
GYMNASTS AREN’T supposed to ski. Just as a surgeon’s hands are important to his or her livelihood, gymnasts’ legs and knees allow us to explode off the vaults and pull off intricate beam maneuvers.
Even though Mom and Dad never wanted me to feel imprisoned by my sport, I studiously avoided the slopes. However, once the Olympics were behind me, I convinced Mom and Dad into taking me skiing so I could finally enjoy the feeling of flying down a mountain on fresh powder. When we loaded up Dad’s truck and headed to Colorado for Christmas 2008, I couldn’t have been happier.
I loved everything about skiing—the warm jackets, the cozy gloves, the cool goggles—and, of course, the adrenaline rush. After a couple of runs down the bunny slope, I was ready for a more challenging course. Pretty soon I was doing black diamonds. I was as daring on the slopes as I’d been on the beam.
In January 2010 my parents arranged another ski trip to Colorado to celebrate my upcoming eighteenth birthday with some family and friends, including my cousin Tori; Ryan; Ryan’s best friend, Brandon; and my close friend Alice. I was thrilled to celebrate this milestone birthday with such a fun group of people.
Once we arrived in Beaver Creek, I was delighted at how picturesque the setting was. The mountains seemed to embrace the little villages nestled into the slopes. Beaver Creek has everything you could hope for in a ski resort—ice-skating rinks, a museum, restaurants, and bonfires everywhere you go. S’mores kits are available on every corner, so you can enjoy a snack while warming up near a fire.
We skied every day on the wonderfully fresh, beautiful snow. It was relaxing and fun. After all those years of being judged, I loved simply being on the slopes with friends and family. At the same time, it’s always been hard for me to participate casually in physical activities. I’m so competitive that I have to inject a little rivalry into things. I raced my dad down the easy hills to see who could make it to the bottom first. My mom kept shouting, “What are you guys doing?”
After a run, we’d meet at the bottom of the slopes, where men in white chef hats and aprons walked around with trays of warm chocolate chip cookies. One evening we went ice-skating at the rink in Beaver Creek Village, the main social hub in town. Ryan and I rented skates and headed out onto the ice, hand in hand.
Because my dad was a hockey player, he taught me how to skate. I’m good on skates, but I don’t glide around the ice with the elegance of an Olympic figure skater.
“You skate like a big hockey player,” Ryan said as I was moving across the ice-skating rink like some sort of brute. We both laughed. I couldn’t imagine life being any sweeter than this.
As a gymnast, I was used to ignoring pain and training through it. So when my shins began feeling sore that week, I didn’t think much about it and kept skiing. By our last day at Beaver Creek, however, the pain had gotten so bad I didn’t know if I could even go down the slopes.
“Don’t ski,” Ryan said to me that morning. “I can teach you how to snowboard. That shouldn’t hurt your shins as much.”
“No, no,” I assured him. “You don’t have to babysit me. I want you to have fun.”
Looking back on it, I realize I was being stubborn. But I didn’t want to miss out on anything. So I put on my gear and headed out to the slopes.
For several hours, we skied, laughed, and had a great time. My shins even felt a little better. We got to the last run, and the entire group stood at the top of the mountain looking down at the path, which split off in two different directions. On one side there was a challenging black diamond; on the other side, a more forgiving green run. Everyone wanted to go the black diamond route, but I finally made a decision that made sense.
“No, I’m super tired, and my shins are still hurting,” I told them. “I’m just going to take it easy and go down this one.”
I watched as my friends and family skied down and disappeared behind the tall aspens. I stood at the top of the mountain for a while. I wanted to remember this moment. I took pictures, soaked in the breathtaking scenery, and enjoyed the last minutes I had on
the mountaintop. Very few skiers were on the slopes at that time, so nobody was around when I finally took off alone.
About halfway down, something unexpected happened.
I assume I hit a patch of ice, because I lost control. As I fell, the safety release on my ski didn’t work. My ski got caught in the snow, and I rolled over my knee. That’s when I heard a pop.
I slid down the slope, leaving my gear behind. My glasses flew off. My hat came off and landed about ten feet away. My poles were strewn around and stuck in various drifts. If onlookers didn’t know any better, they might have thought I was holding a ski gear yard sale. Finally I stopped sliding and came to a complete stop. I sat there for a while, helpless and silent. It hadn’t really dawned on me that I’d hurt myself. I didn’t yet realize that the pop I’d heard was a sign that my life was about to change.
I sat there for ten minutes or so before a snowboarder reached me. On her way down, she collected my things, one by one.
“Are you okay?” she asked, handing me my gloves.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just going to sit here a little longer.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Are you sure?” she asked.
When I reassured her, she got up and snowboarded down the slope. I watched her until she became a small dot at the bottom of the mountain. That’s when I saw my whole group, who had just made it down their black diamond.
“Hey, guys!” I yelled with as much volume as I could muster. “Up here!”
They had been scanning the people at the bottom of the mountain, looking for me. They figured I would ski fast just to get to the cookies first. Alice heard my voice and smiled when she saw me.
“Are you okay?” she yelled, waving.
Though I wasn’t sure of the extent of my injuries, I didn’t feel right. “No!” I yelled back. And with that one syllable, I could see everybody begin to panic. Even from that distance, it was obvious they were worried.
My dad took off his skis and began walking up the mountain. As soon as he got to me, I started crying. There was something so comforting about having him there by my very cold side.
“I hurt my knee,” I said.
“Okay, let’s call somebody,” he said. “We can put you on a stretcher and get you help down there.”
“No!” I protested. “I’m never going to ride down on one of those things!” Ryan was at the bottom of the slope, and there was no way I was going to let him see me being carried down the mountain on a stretcher. Even though I suspected something was wrong, I figured if I ignored it everything would be fine. That’s why I assured my dad—and myself—that all was well. Then, to prove my point, I actually skied down what was left of the mountain. When I got to the bottom, however, I couldn’t hide my emotions. I just bawled. It took me a while to shake it off and regain my composure.
Ryan looked very concerned.
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I assured him. I took off my skis and my boot and rolled up my pant leg. “See?”
When we looked at my leg, we were both surprised that it was already black and blue. Ryan offered to take me to the lodge.
“No, I’m fine,” I repeated, jumping up and down on my knee to prove it. “See? I’m okay,” I said, as much to myself as to him. “It’s just a sprain; I’ll be fine.”
But in the back of my mind, I worried that something might be seriously wrong.
Part 4
Coming Back
One day at a time,
the clock keeps going;
the world keeps turning.
I keep dreaming, hoping, praying
that the answer will come to me.
You look, you search, you never find
that little sign you’re looking for, because,
like a butterfly,
the more you look, the more it hides.
But turn around and you’ll see:
it flies to you so gracefully.
Chapter 30
Everything Changes
You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
—Eleanor Roosevelt
WHAT I REMEMBER most about the moments after I heard my knee pop is not the pain. Instead, it was a not-yet-fully-formed fear that flashed through my mind: Could I have lost the opportunity to return to gymnastics? Until that moment, I’d always had the option. When people asked me if I planned to train for a spot on the 2012 Olympic team, I could assure them I was considering it.
During the first few weeks after I returned home from Colorado, I’d think about my future as I drifted off to sleep. I was tempted by the idea of a normal life. College. A long-term relationship uninterrupted by practice and meets. Time for other activities. But then I’d think of gymnastics, and I’d feel a pang of longing. Was my knee injury ending my gymnastics life forever? Would I never know if I had more to give the sport that had given me so much?
That may be why I tried so hard to convince Ryan, my parents, and most of all, myself that my injury wasn’t serious. Also, I’d spent most of my life in a high-impact sport in which knee injuries, tendonitis, fractures, and strains are common. Gymnasts don’t cater to pain and sometimes don’t even acknowledge injury.
I was no longer a gymnast, but this attitude had been ingrained in me for so many years that I refused to go to the doctor. Anytime someone told me I should get a professional to look at my knee, I shrugged it off. “Oh, it’ll be fine,” I said. “It’ll heal.”
But I knew—and everyone else knew—that something was wrong. For example, when I jogged I had to run in a perfectly straight line. If my body moved even slightly sideways, I’d collapse in pain. My trainer watched this and gently suggested that I see an expert.
“I just want you to go see one of my physical therapists,” she said, fully aware of my stubborn streak. She’d heard me repeatedly refuse to see a doctor, so she offered the therapist as a middle step. She knew if she could get me to a professional, he’d at least talk to me honestly.
But even the physical therapist realized he would need to handle my stubbornness carefully. After examining me for only a few minutes, he knew what was wrong. However, he was aware that if he suggested there was a problem—a real problem—I’d walk out of there and never seek medical attention again. “Shawn, I really encourage you to go get an MRI,” he said diplomatically. “Let’s just make sure nothing’s wrong.”
My orthopedic doctor also knew what was wrong as soon as I walked in. But even he didn’t let on until after I’d agreed to the MRI. “Worst-case scenario,” he said, “you’ve got some sort of little tear that’ll heal on its own. Let’s get in there and see what we’re dealing with.”
In the midst of my doctor and PT visits, I kept doing my normal routine—running, working out, and fulfilling commitments to sponsors. I especially enjoyed the photo shoot for some “Got Milk?” ads. Who hasn’t seen someone they recognize wearing that iconic milk mustache? And I definitely didn’t want to forfeit my spot as a torchbearer for the 2010 Winter Olympics. On my eighteenth birthday, I carried the torch down the streets of Calgary as Canadians lined the streets. Holding that torch up high as I made my way past the cheering crowd definitely ranks as one of my favorite Olympic memories.
Once I was home again, I went right in for the MRI. After the procedure, my doctor told me he would call me with the results later that day. I left the doctor’s office feeling on edge. I had finally gotten to the place where I actually wanted to know what was wrong. I wanted to be able to validate the pain I was feeling, but at the same time I hoped any damage wasn’t irreparable.
As soon as I got in the car, I took out my cell phone and dialed a familiar number, one I hadn’t called often in the last few years.
I felt the tears begin to fall even before my call was answered.
“Hello, Shawn!”
“Could I meet with you at the gym?” I asked.
Chow sounded a bit surprised but pleased to hear from me. “Sure. Do you want to set up a time to meet next week?” he
asked.
“Actually, could I come by right now?” I’m sure Chow could hear me sobbing into the phone.
“Of course,” he said.
The drive to Chow’s Gymnastics felt as natural as if I’d never stopped going there to train every day. But I was nervous as I walked into the gym, and I was afraid of Chow’s reaction to what I planned on saying. Still, I thought I had no choice but to lay everything out there.
Once we were seated in his office, I said, “Coach Chow, I want to come back. I miss gymnastics.” Then I told him how I injured my knee and how, in the moment I heard something pop, I immediately thought of gymnastics.
Gymnastics is such a demanding, unforgiving sport, and no one understands that better than Chow. As I broke down in tears, I prepared myself for a negative reaction. What if Chow didn’t want to take me back? I had walked away from everything, and I was asking him to make a big commitment by overseeing my training again—especially now that I had injured my knee.
Chow surprised me.
“Okay, Shawn,” he said. “Just calm down.”
He told me to look at this injury as a blessing. “You’ve been stumbling around during the past two years,” he said. “You’ve been traveling and working. Now you have a chance to figure out what you want to do with your life once and for all.”
“Do you think I can come back from this?” I asked hesitantly.
“It’ll be much more difficult—not just mentally, but physically,” he said. “You come back after you hear from your doctor. As you start training again, little by little, we’ll see how you feel and if you’re still enjoying it. It is going to take time and a lot of work, but if you are willing to commit to it, I’m willing to work with you.”