It must have made Job feel very small to hear the Lord speak of so many great and mighty things that He accomplished every day in the wild places of the world. Small, but lost in God’s greatness.
She felt small too, out in the middle of the wide, blue lake, in the great wilderness silence, ringed by towering old-growth pines and snow-capped mountains beyond that.
Small, but filled with wonder at God’s greatness in the majesty of His creation.
Ken cast his line again, looked over at her, and smiled. And how kind of God to give her someone to share it all with.
FEBRUARY 1989
It was Sunday morning, and they’d had another argument.
What was it about Sundays and getting ready to go to church and worship the Lord that sparked so many disagreements? Maybe it was just the rush. Getting up, bolting down breakfast, gathering notebooks and Bibles, warming up the van, and all the thousand and one extra things they had to do for Joni because of her quadriplegia.
“You could’ve asked Judy to help you with your vest and scarf before she left.” Ken mechanically stuffed Joni’s arms through armholes and jerked hard to button the vest. “We’re late as it is,” he said in a low, tense voice. The brusqueness with which he treated her made her bristle.
“We’re late because you didn’t start taking a shower until twenty minutes ago,” she said in a tone to match his.
“Oh, so it’s my fault.”
She was silent for a moment and then turned the dagger. “You said it, not me.”
All the way down the freeway toward church, a frosty silence hung between them. Ken took the exit to Las Virgenes Road a little too fast and braked a little too hard at the stoplight. It jostled her, but she stubbornly refused to say anything. It might have been a bright California winter day outside, but inside the van it felt dark and gloomy.
Both of them dreaded being the first to speak up and break the impasse. But what they dreaded even more was sitting together in God’s house, singing hymns and reading Scripture when their hearts felt locked up from irritation and hurt.
They pulled into the parking lot with a few minutes to spare before the start of the service. But both of them felt like they would have preferred to simply turn the van around and go home. Ken turned off the motor, and they sat in silence, listening to the pops and cracks of the stilled engine.
Ken looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Can we pray?”
“I don’t really feel like it.”
“Neither do I, but … maybe that’s the time when we need it most.”
He waited for a long moment, and then he opened his Bible to Romans 8 and read about how the Holy Spirit would help them in their weakness when they didn’t feel like praying or even know what to say. Then he closed the Bible, and they closed their eyes … and waited. The windows in the van were up, yet they could still hear the strains of a hymn from inside the church. Joni began to hum along. And within a moment or two, scarves and vests and being late didn’t seem all that important.
And the Holy Spirit kept His promise.
JUNE 1990
“There’s a full moon tonight,” Ken said as they were cleaning up the dishes from supper. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Oh, boy, let’s do it!”
“But remember, it’s June. We have to wait for a while until it gets dark.”
A full moon on a June night in Southern California was definitely worth waiting for.
Joni, of course, could get poetic about it. In one of her books she wrote about “the silvery sheen of a bright moonlit night when the shadows are long and common shapes and figures take on an almost magical quality.”
Ken, never quite so poetic, just enjoyed setting aside his lesson plans and getting out in the cooler night air. They walked together on the sidewalk, Joni in her power chair and Ken resting a hand on her shoulder, one of the few places where she could feel that husbandly touch.
A few others were out too, walking dogs or watering flowerbeds, but most of the Californians had gone inside for the night.
“Did I ever tell you how we’d go out on full-moon nights back on the farm?” Joni said.
“I think so. But tell me again.”
“I was going to anyway.”
“I thought so.”
“We would saddle up horses and go for a moonlit ride. Daddy and his four girls — can you imagine?” “Just barely.”
“We’d go riding down the gravel road, all silver in the moonlight. I can still hear the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves. We’d laugh and sing funny, romantic songs about the moon. ‘Oh, Mr. Moon, moon, bright and silvery moon, won’t you please shine down on me?’ “ she sang in rhythm with Ken’s walk.
“It was a bit different from the way I grew up. There weren’t too many moonlit horseback rides in Burbank.”
“I know. But anyway, here we are, together under a full moon in Calabasas. It’s still pretty magical.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling over at her, “it sure is.”
OCTOBER 2000
She had been getting ready for a speaking engagement at a prestigious conference, and it was definitely “a big deal.” It was one of those exclusive, by-invitation-only affairs populated by corporate executives, trustees from various foundations and colleges, and presidents of major universities.
With the help of several of her team members, she had worked to get her message “just right.” Judy had helped her find a new outfit to wear, and someone else had volunteered to clean and polish her wheelchair.
OK, so these were just people who, in the big scheme of things, were no more “important” than other people. But even so … why not try to be at her very, very best?
Just three days before she was due to fly out to the conference, something happened that had never happened before. She had been wheeling along outside when she began to feel a thump-thump-thump jostling of her chair. What in the world …?
Glancing over her shoulder she saw with incredulous eyes that the tire of her wheelchair had split apart. All the foam inside was spilling out into a big, ugly growth on the side of her tire. It looked … grotesque … horrible. She knew that if she didn’t do something soon, she would soon be riding on the rims of her wheels. Images came to her mind of wild police car chases in Los Angeles with fleeing vehicles careening down surface streets on shot-out tires, the rims digging into the asphalt and sending up showers of sparks.
Ken would know what to do.
She called him, and he gravely examined the problem, hurried into the garage, and came back with … a roll of duct tape.
His beloved, jumbo, silver-hued, do-everything, fix-anything duct tape.
She looked at him in disbelief. “Duct tape?” she said. “You’re going to fix my tire with duct tape?”
Ken explained that until he could order a new tire, it was their only option. With that, he began to wrap her bulging, misshapen tire — and that lovely, shining rim — with layer after layer of duct tape.
Was that a little smile on his face he was trying to hide? Was he actually enjoying himself? He’d better not be!
Round and round he wound the tape until the bulge was completely contained.
“OK,” he said, “try wheeling on it.”
Joni powered her chair slowly forward. It was still going thump-thump-thump, but at least the rim was safe. It had worked, after a fashion, and it was incredibly tacky.
“Best I can do for now,” Ken had said, still basking in the glow of his accomplishment.
“Oh, no,” Joni groaned. “I can’t believe I’ve got to roll thump-thump-thump in front of the audience — that audience — looking like I’ve just been in a demolition derby.”
Ken smiled at that image in spite of himself, and Joni couldn’t help but smile back (just a little). It was another example of God not allowing her to become too self-focused or overly impressed with herself.
He had always had a way of keeping her humble.
And to be fair, the duct tape
had worked.
SEPTEMBER 2004
It was to be Joni and Ken’s longest and most rigorous trip ever. First, it was a two-day flight to India, with a stopover in London. Then, after five days spent ministering in Bangalore, they flew to Bangkok, Thailand, for a conference on world evangelization. From there, it was a twenty-one-hour flight from Bangkok to Dubai, and finally on to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
The capital city was modern and bustling, but just a mile beyond the city border lay clusters of thatched huts and crumbling concrete houses. Ancient Coptic churches were speckled throughout tightly clustered neighborhoods, while newly built mosques cast long shadows over homes and shops. The mosques all seemed empty. That’s when their Christian host explained. “The imams say, ‘Your children may play in the shadow of these minarets now, but one day, their children will be ours.’ “ Ethiopia was the only “Christian” nation in Sahara Africa, and it was obvious that Muslims were making a concerted effort to claim it as theirs.
The week was busy with meetings with pastors, appointments with disability and government leaders, a visit to a leprosy clinic, and a press conference, but Joni and Ken were especially looking forward to speaking at a large public meeting in the downtown soccer hall — a large rectangular structure made entirely of steel and tin. Although the clouds looked dark and threatening on the morning of the event, it certainly didn’t dissuade people from coming. By the time Ken and Joni arrived, their van had to putter its way down a pockmarked dirt road through thick crowds to reach the entrance.
“These people — all of them — are so beautiful,” Joni remarked, looking out the window. When Ken lifted her out of the van and into her wheelchair, large groups simply stood and watched. Some women covered their faces with their veils — that’s when they remembered that their host said there would be many Muslims in the audience that day.
It meant that, once she was on the platform, Joni wanted to be very succinct in not only explaining the gospel of Christ but also in helping these people understand Jesus’ compassion for people with disabilities. She recalled how earlier, the crowds — wanting to watch Ken help her — had shoved aside women in wheelchairs and men on crutches. “No, please, let them come forward!” she cried, but she wasn’t sure they understood.
When she wheeled into position on the platform and looked up, it took her breath away. In front of her stretched a sea of thousands of faces filling the aisles all the way to the back of the hall. She took a deep breath and began, telling her story as simply as she could, speaking about her “black heart,” her need of a Savior, and how Jesus Christ won the right to be her substitute on the cross. She then described Jesus’ love for the weak and needy, especially for those with disabilities.
“Jesus told us to go out and find these people, and to bring them in. Everyone wants to be treated with dignity and respect, especially when you have a disability,” she said, gesturing to her own wheelchair.
As she was about to wind up her message, the clouds above the soccer hall burst open and rain poured down on the tin roof. Thank you, Lord, for letting me finish, she thought with great relief.
It wasn’t easy getting back to their van, but Ken and Joni were in no rush. They paused often to give hugs and thank the people. The rain made the late afternoon darker than usual, and once they reached the door, it looked like it would be a mad dash to reach the van without getting wet. Their hosts, however, were ready with umbrellas. They shook the rain off their coats, started the engine, flipped on the windshield wipers, and began to slowly drive back to the main highway, swerving this way and that to avoid potholes and groups of people walking in the downpour.
Suddenly, their headlights caught the back of a young woman inching along, drenched to the bone and valiantly maneuvering her wheelchair through the mud. Scores of people passed her, holding newspapers over their heads and simply walking around her. No one stopped to offer help or push her wheelchair. Joni leaned forward in her chair to get a good look. “I can’t believe this — all this, after I just finished talking about God’s compassion for us … And how we must show that same compassion to others!”
Watching this disabled woman struggle was too much to bear.
“Stop!” Ken called out. “Stop here!” Ken tore off his sport coat, rolled up the sleeves of his clean, starched shirt, and hopped out of the van. “Here, take an umbrella!” someone in the back called, but Ken waved them off. Hopping over rain puddles in his good shoes, he found the handles of the woman’s wheelchair and threw his weight against it. All the way to the main road, in the pouring rain, he carefully steered the woman around people, rocks, and ruts.
Joni swelled with admiration for her husband! And she half hoped that someone would come alongside to help, lend a hand, and put into practice the point of her message. But it didn’t happen. By the time they reached the main road, everyone was scattering in different directions. Ken, who left the woman by the bus stop, had never met a more grateful person! She turned her chair in the direction of the van, calling out, “Thank you! Thank you!” and waving with all her might. Which was especially poignant, explained their host, because it was likely that two or three buses would turn her down before she caught one that would allow her to board.
Ken hopped in the van and brushed off his hair. “I think she still has far to go.”
No doubt, thought Joni. But at least for once in her life a good man cared enough to help her along the way.
DECEMBER 2010
Chemotherapy was finally over. The fiercest part of the battle against cancer was behind them. At last, they could relax a little and reminisce, finding humor in the nastiest of experiences.
One of the things Dr. Ashouri had warned them about was the way chemo drugs could weaken bones. Joni’s were already thin and fragile. So in late December, he scheduled her for a regular scan to measure the density of her bones.
How tough could that be?
As they headed to the hospital, they were wondering, Can a bone scan be all that complicated? For most patients it meant slipping on a surgical gown, hopping on the table, and taking a ten-minute nap while the scanner did its thing. That’s the way it was for most people, but most people aren’t quadriplegics.
First, the scanner was in the tiniest of rooms into which Ken had to manhandle her wheelchair. It was the size of a closet, made even smaller by the two male aides who had to squeeze in to help lift Joni. Heaving his wife onto the table was no easy feat, and then he nearly wrenched his back uncorseting her and pulling off her slacks.
“Ken, catch my arm, please. It’s falling off the table.”
“Got it!” He then turned his attention to her leg bag and began taking it off.
“There it goes again!”
“Come on, arms,” he said, “work with me here!” He retrieved it again and then had an idea. He tucked her elbows tightly against her hips with a draw sheet. After that, he lined up her body with the machine and called in the technician. The ten-minute scan was a breeze — it was getting dressed and back into the wheelchair that took three times as long.
But that’s life; that’s “normal” for a quadriplegic.
This bone scan? It was a cinch compared to what they had been through. It was funny how suffering became so relative. What used to be “unbearable” became endurable compared to the worst of times. And all of it was geared by God to remind them of their total dependence on Him.
The struggle with the bone scan was simply a reminder of their urgent, drastic dependence on God. Jesus had referred to it in the gospel of John: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5 ESV).
Vines and branches don’t separate. It’s impossible for them to do so. In the same way, there could be no “disconnect” when it came to abiding in Christ.
Joni had thought about that the week before the scan. Too many times she had found herself thinking, How long do I have to be plugge
d into God through a quiet time or prayer or reading a book to get the charge I need to then go out and do my thing? But Jesus had never said, “I am the power cord; you are the iPhone.” He said, “I am the vine; you are the branches.” If she wanted that life — and she did — there couldn’t be any disconnect. Abiding was what desperate people did who realized they had no life, no power, no resource within themselves.
After the bone scan, they wheeled out into the parking lot and … laughed. Not that it had been easy. Far from it. But relative to everything else, it was a walk in the park. Hard? Yes. Frustrating? You bet. Pushing them up against the grace of God? Always! But could they — would they — deal with it again?
No doubt!
“You do understand,” she said to Ken, “that we’ll have to do more of these in the future, right?”
“Sure,” he replied, cranking the van’s ignition. “But we’ll know how to tackle it better next time.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Ken kept a straight face. “It’s simple. We order an industrial crane with a hoist capacity of … oh, say, about a hundred tons.”
Joni laughed. “OK, Mr. Ken Takeshi Tada,” she said from the back of the van, “you’re in big trouble now.”
“Am I? Well, guess what? I’ve been there before,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror with a smile. “And I lived to tell the story!”
CONCLUSION
A PERSONAL NOTE FROM JONI AND KEN
Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
Joni & Ken Page 17