Soon “Lindy” fell in love with “Cap’n John,” and he with her. Many of their dates were crowded, however, for “Cap’n John” brought the entire youth group along!
As an expression of his love, dad worked night and day and built a house for mom as a wedding present. It was toward the end of the Depression and money was still scarce, so he scoured the area with his truck. From an old sailing ship, he salvaged huge beams for the foundation and rafters.
While driving one day, he saw some men demolishing a rock wall.
“What are you going to do with those rocks?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I’ll be glad to haul them away,” dad replied.
“Okay,” the foreman grunted, “just make sure they’re gone by Friday. We’ve got a job to do here.”
“Yessir!” shouted dad. He began the remarkable job of single-handedly moving boulders—most weighing more than a hundred pounds. He did it by himself, somehow maneuvering them onto his truck. After many trips, he had enough for his house. Today two beautiful, huge stone fireplaces are the result of that labor.
The same kind of thing happened when he needed lumber, bricks, and other building supplies. Finally his dream house was completed. He and his bride moved in and have lived there since.
Daddy had the same active interest in business and civic affairs-. Years ago, he started his own flooring business.
He said, “I guess I’m too independent to work for somebody else. I love my family too much to be tied down to someone else’s schedule and interests. By being my own boss, if I want to take off a day and drive my family to the ocean or take ‘em horseback riding, I don’t have to ask anyone. I just put a sign on the door, lock up, and go.”
And we did. We took many trips and vacations, and they were so much fun that it’s difficult to believe they were also part of our education. Dad taught us geography and geology during “survival” backpack outings in the desert or mountains. He showed us how to distinguish between the tracks of various animals, their calls, their ways—things we could never learn in the city.
He introduced us to horseback riding almost as soon as we could sit up. I was in the saddle at age two. In fact, daddy often bragged, “Do you remember the time our whole family rode a hundred miles on horseback? It was from Laramie to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Remember, Joni? You were only four years old! Youngest ever to ride in the Cheyenne Ride.” When we were a bit older, he took us pack-riding in the wilderness of the Medicine Bow range where we acquired a deep appreciation for God and His creation.
Dad taught us all to ride gracefully balanced and gave us lessons in show horsemanship. “Just ride in a rolling motion with the horse,” he’d say, “not like the beginners—bouncing on the horse. It’s almost impossible to synchronize your up and down bounces to the horse’s movements. You’ve got to roll with him, not bounce.”
Dad was always even-tempered and amiable. Nothing or no one ever ruffled him. Not once during all our growing-up years did I see him lose his temper. Our behavior then was based on “not hurting daddy.” We didn’t do certain things because of “what it would do to daddy,” not because it was simply questionable or wrong.
When dad came to the hospital for the brief visits allowed in the ICU ward, he tried to communicate the same genial, positive spirit I’d always known. But no matter how much he tried to appear relaxed and hopeful, his clouded blue eyes, usually so clear and sparkling, betrayed his nervousness. His weathered, gnarled hands shook as they revealed his true feelings. He was afraid and hurt. The daughter he loved and named after himself was lying helpless in a sandwich of canvas and a tangle of IV and catheter tubes.
The hospital was no place for this man who had spent a lifetime outdoors as an active athlete. His pain and restlessness were difficult to hide.
It hurt me to see what my accident had done to him. “Why, God?” I asked. “Why are You doing this?”
There was an unusually strong bond of love that tied us together as a family. Mom was a source of that strength. She too loved the outdoors and athletic competition and shared dad’s interests. In fact, it was she who taught us girls to play tennis. Swimming and hiking were also things we did as a family.
Mom, with her strong character and loving personality, worked as hard as daddy to see that we had a happy home. There was seldom any disagreement between my parents, and their obvious love for one another was reflected in our lives and made us feel wanted and secure.
After the accident, mom was the one who took charge at the hospital. She stayed there around the clock the first four days, catching short naps on a sofa in the lounge. She did not leave until she was absolutely certain I was out of danger.
Since we were such a close family, my sisters shared my parents’ concern. Kathy, twenty, dark-haired, pretty, and shy, was the one who had pulled me from the water and saved my life.
Jay, twenty-three at the time of my accident, was the sister I was closest to. She was quiet and graceful, her long, blond hair lightened by constant exposure to sun and swimming.
Jay was married and the mother of a little girl named Kay. In spite of her family responsibilities, she found time to come to the hospital and be with me, and I looked forward to her visits. If my Stryker frame had me facing down, she’d lie down on the floor. There she’d spread out Seventeen magazines for us to read together. And she tried to brighten my corner of the room with plants and posters, although “regulations” soon required that they be removed.
Linda, my oldest sister, was married and had three small children. Because she was about ten years older than I was, I was not as close to her as to Kathy and Jay.
The memories of our good times as a family did help to take my mind off the pain and nightmares. I also recalled the good experiences of my high school years and the friends I had made then.
Woodlawn Senior High School was located in a scenic part of our suburban Baltimore area. The two-story brick complex was situated in the midst of a campus that made full use of the outdoors. Sidewalks were lined with trees, and a small stream wound through the grassy grounds. Art students were often scattered around the picturesque, landscaped campus, sketching or painting.
Out back, on the athletic field, were ball diamonds, track courses, tennis courts, and lacrosse courts. Lacrosse was the sport I loved most. In fact, being named captain of our girls’ lacrosse team in my senior year meant more to me than my nomination to the honor society.
As a sophomore at Woodlawn, I had come into contact with an organization called Young Life, a religious-oriented youth work that ministers primarily to high school kids. I had noticed that lots of the “neat” kids, the achievers, the popular ones, were Christian kids from Young Life, so when I heard about a “fantastic retreat” Young Life was sponsoring, I wanted to go.
“Mom,” I begged, “you’ve simply got to let me go. Please?” I was fifteen, a young girl searching for identity and meaning to life.
The Young Life weekend was held in Natural Bridge, Virginia. Crowds of kids from Baltimore area high schools converged on this tiny community for a weekend crammed with fun and challenges to consider what the Bible has to say about our relationship to God.
Carl Nelson, the Young Life camp speaker, shared how the gospel begins with God’s glory and His righteousness. “That standard of righteousness was expressed through the Ten Commandments,” he told us.
Carl opened his Bible and read “and by the law comes knowledge of sin.”
“And so, gang,” he went on, “it’s impossible to reach heaven by trying to stick to a list of moral do’s and don’ts. There’s just no way any one of us can live up to those commandments God has laid down.”
The meeting broke up, and I wandered out into the fall night air. Me, a sinner? I’d never really understood what that word meant. However, now I saw my rebellion in the light of God’s perfection. I knew I was a lost sinner, no matter how strange it sounded.
Well, I obviously can’t save myself, so who…
Then everything that Carl had shared thus far that weekend began to make sense. That’s why Jesus, God’s Son, had come!
“He being God in the flesh fulfilled the law and lived the perfect life. And when He died, He was paying the penalty of your sin.” I recalled Carl’s words.
I sat down and leaned back against a tree and looked up at the silent expanse of stars, half-expecting to see something—I don’t know what. Only flickering specks blinked back. Yet, as I looked, I was overwhelmed by the love of God. I closed my eyes. “Oh, God, I see my sin; yet I also see Your mercy. Thank You for sending Your Son, Jesus, to die for me. I’ve decided in my heart not to do those things that will grieve You anymore. Instead of doing things my way, I want Christ to sit on the throne of my life and lead me. Thank You for saving me from sin and giving me eternal life.” I got up and ran back to the room, anxious to tell my friend Jackie how God had saved me.
I had always heard how much God loved me as I was growing up. Mom and dad were Christians and members of the Bishop Cummings Reformed Episcopal Church in Catonsville.
But in my early teens I was looking for my own way and lifestyle, and I didn’t have time for God. I had experimented with many things to find out where I fit into life. At first I thought popularity and dates were the answer. Then I thought the discipline of athletics was where I would find it. But now my searching ended. All the pieces of the puzzle fit together, and it all made sense! Jesus, God’s Son, had come to save me and make me a whole person.
A great flood of personal joy came to me that night, and I made a decision to invite Jesus Christ into my heart and life. I didn’t fully understand it all, but I was to learn that God is patient, loving, forgiving, and tolerant of our mistakes.
I heard two concepts presented that weekend that I had never clearly understood before. I learned that I was a sinner because I wasn’t able, nor was anyone able, to live up to God’s standards for behavior. That’s why He allowed His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, to die for me. It was an emotional, meaningful moment when I realized Jesus died for me, personally.
Then I heard about an exciting concept called “the abundant life.” Our counselor explained that Jesus came to die for our sins, but that He also came to give us “abundant life” (John 10:10). In my immature mind, the abundant life meant I’d lose weight or have new popularity and dates at school, lots of friends, and good grades.
My concept of what was meant by the abundant life was completely wrong, of course, and by the time I was a junior in high school, things had slipped for me. I had expected, as a new Christian, to find security and purpose in things—the things I’d based my spiritual life on—going to church, singing in choir, serving as a Young Life club officer. My whole focus was on these things, not on God. My life revolved around temporal values, my own ego and desires.
About this time, I met Jason Leverton. Jason was a handsome, muscular, and personable guy. With his broad shoulders, serious brown eyes, and thick light-colored hair, he was called the “Blond Flash” by his wrestling teammates for his speed and ability in state champion competition. Jason and I dated regularly and were always together at school and social functions.
Dad was especially fond of Jason because of his own keen interest in wrestling. It was not surprising for me to play second fiddle to dad when Jason came to visit. Frequently they would good-naturedly “take on” one another, demonstrating unusual wrestling holds or pins.
Jason was lots of fun. He and I shared secrets and our plans for the future. We planned to go to college together, probably even get married one day.
We had a favorite place—a nearby park—where we’d take walks and talk. Jason was also active in Young Life so these times were often used for sharing spiritual thoughts and praying together. Sometimes I’d even climb down the drain pipe outside my bedroom window and meet him after curfew—until mom caught me one night! She made certain I obeyed curfew rules after that.
It was about the time Jason and I started to get romantically serious that real conflicts started. We both were seniors in high school and knew there were stated limits in expressing our affection for one another. But neither of us had the inner resources capable of dealing with problems of temptation.
We would often go driving or horseback riding. Many times we’d ride out to an open meadow surrounded by beautiful woods, deep blue skies, and magnificent summer clouds. The sights, sounds, and smells of the country were terribly romantic and erotic. Before we realized what was happening, innocent, youthful expressions of love for one another—hand-holding, hugging, kissing—gave way to caressing, touching, and passions neither of us could control. We wanted to stop, but often when we found ourselves in a secluded spot, we fell into each other’s arms. Our mutual lack of self-restraint bothered us tremendously.
“Jason—why can’t we stop? What’s wrong with us?” I asked one night.
“I don’t know. I know we shouldn’t mess around, but—”
“Jason, we’ve got to stop seeing each other for awhile. It’s the only way. I can’t stop. You can’t either. Every time we get alone, we—uh—we sin. If we’re really serious about repenting of all this, then we’re just going to have to stay away from each other for awhile so we can avoid temptation.”
Jason was silent awhile. Then he agreed. “Maybe we should.”
He suggested that I might enjoy dating his friend Dick Filbert, a sensitive, mature Christian. I guess he thought if I was dating someone else, it might as well be a friend. That way we’d still have an indirect contact.
Dick was tall, lean, and good-looking—like Jason—but there the similarity ended. Dick was quiet, shy, but more expressive. An aura of casualness surrounded him right down to his worn jeans and moccasins, and his soft voice reflected a peace and serenity. Dick’s eyes, bright and blue, could quiet any storm in my soul, and his presence was a strong, unmoving rock that I could cling to in times of confusion.
During my senior year, my time was divided between Jason and Dick. I tried to avoid romantic interest in either of them and to treat each as just a good friend. I relaxed by horseback riding, playing records and guitar, and I tried to learn more about the Christian life through Young Life Bible studies. Even my prayer times began to reflect more serious goals.
I was accepted for the fall term at Western Maryland College on academic recommendations. My life seemed to be falling into place, going somewhere—and yet it wasn’t.
I remember lying in bed one morning shortly after graduation and thinking about all these things.
The summer sunlight flooded into my window. Filtered through leaves in the trees outside, it splattered into flickering points of dancing light across my bed and along the pink, roseprint wallpaper. I yawned and rolled over to look outside. When daddy had built his dream house, he’d included these unique touches—such as the small “porthole” window near the floor beside my bed. I’d just turn over in bed and look down outside.
It was still early but I got up quickly and fished out a pair of Levi’s and a pullover shirt from my dresser. As I dressed, my eyes turned once more to the black leather diploma folder on the dressing table. I ran my fingers over its grain and the embossed Old English lettering of my name and school crest. Just a few days earlier, I had walked down the aisle in cap and gown to receive that diploma.
“Breakfast!” Mom’s voice downstairs punctuated my reverie.
“Coming, mom,” I called. Bounding down the stairs, I pulled a chair up to the table.
“Are you going out to the ranch after church, Joni?” asked mom.
“Uh-huh. I know Tumbleweed’s going to be ready for the summer horse show circuit but I want to spend more time with her, anyway.”
The “ranch” was our family farm some twenty miles west of town. It was situated on a panoramic ridge in the rolling, picturesque river valley and was surrounded by state park land.
By the time I got there, the sun had already climbed high in the sky and the fragrance of new-
mown hay was blown toward me. The breeze also caressed the tall wildflowers and grasses of the sloping meadows and gently tossed the uppermost branches in the sweet-smelling apple trees nearby. Humming softly and happily, I saddled Tumbleweed and swung up to mount her.
It was refreshing to be so far away from the dirt, noise, and noxious smells of the city. In summer, Baltimore suffers from the industrial air pollution and sweltering humidity that rolls in from Chesapeake Bay. Here, in our own little paradise, we’re free to enjoy the summer sun and air.
I pressed my thighs against Tumbleweed’s sides and nudged her with my heels. The chestnut mare headed up the dusty dirt road at a walk. When we came to the pasture, I dug my heels again. Tumbleweed really didn’t need the silent command. She knew there was room to run here without concern for potholes or rocks. Scattered across the field were several log-rail fence jumps. We cantered toward this first jump, a broad, four-foot solid rail fence. As I tightened my knees against Tumbleweed, I felt the smooth, precision strides of the big horse.
The experienced rider instinctively knows the right “feel” of a horse preparing to jump. Tumbleweed was experienced and so was I. We had won all kinds of ribbons and horse show awards. I knew the sound of hoofs—the proper cadence, pounding across the earthen course.
Smoothly, the horse lifted up and over the fence. Suspended for an instant, it was like flying. Nearly ten feet off the ground aboard Tumbleweed, I was exhilarated each time the mare jumped. After several runs, Tumbleweed was wet with sweaty lather.
I reined her to a slow trot and turned back toward the barn.
“Joni!”
Looking up, I saw dad astride his gray gelding galloping across the field toward me. Smiling, he pulled his horse up.
“I saw her jump, Joni. She’s in excellent shape. I think you’ll both run away with the ribbons at next week’s show!”
Joni Page 3