CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 12
That fall of 1970, my life began to take on interesting dimensions. With Steve away at Bible college and other friends at college or getting married, I became aware once more that there were no prospects for my own marriage. I began to deal realistically with the concept that God’s plan for me was singleness. It was a disappointment to read Christian books on the subject, since most of them assume that the single woman must prepare to one day be a married woman. Few, if any, give realistic, practical advice for a woman confronting singlehood as a lifelong reality.
I still had deep-seated and highly emotional reservations about giving up Dick. I felt I was doing the proper thing. I had no right to marry—unless God returned that right as a special grace. That seemed remote and highly unlikely.
So I tried to accept my single role without bitterness or bad attitudes.
I often sang or was a bridesmaid at the weddings of my friends—and even caught the bridal bouquet several times. These occasions brought forth feelings and emotions long forgotten—or so I thought until they surfaced.
I suppose, deep down, I was secretly wishing for the right man to come along—the man who could handle my handicap and the chair. Lord, You know I’m content in my present state, but I suppose I’ll always wonder if You have a man planned for me.
Many of my friends were married now, and I often found it difficult to relate to them. Their interests were different; they were caught up in establishing a home and family—too busy with their own lives taking on new directions to be involved in the interests we once had together. By now I was mature enough to accept this as a natural development in our friendships, so I wasn’t resentful or bitter. But I did feel separate, alone.
I wondered whether God would ever bring into my life a man capable of loving me for myself and willing to spend his life with me. Could I ever be happy single? Hadn’t I gone through enough? Would God try me further by allowing me to remain single all my life?
These questions fed my emotional insecurity, and loneliness swept over me.
“God,” I prayed, “please bring someone into my life to bridge this emptiness.”
Why? Isn’t My grace sufficient for you?
I knew I was asking for my desires and not God’s will. But, after all, didn’t Jesus say, “Ask whatever you will in my name and I’ll give it to you”?
Shortly after that, at a Young Life leadership meeting, I met Donald Bertolli, a friend of Dick’s.
“Don’s from the tough area of town—Pimlico—and works with kids from the street,” the leader said, as he introduced Don. “Our church, Arlington Presbyterian, sponsors this work among the poor minority kids there.”
Donald was a handsome, rugged man of Assyrian-Italian descent, with large, dark brown eyes. He seemed wound like a spring—full of energy and strength. Although he was older than most of us—twenty-seven to my twenty-one, for example—he seemed to enjoy the time together with us.
When he spoke, it was often with a question. His voice had cracks and a roughness that reflected a streetwise background. He distrusted pat answers and persisted to get at the real core of truth. His voice was also hesitant, somewhat shy, almost as if he was afraid to share his inner thoughts aloud.
As he questioned, he’d stop to reflect. He gave intense concentration to what was said but didn’t seem easily swayed or convinced.
When someone acknowledged, “But that’s the way it is,” Donald interrupted with, “That’s a cop-out! Nothing has to be just because that’s the way it’s always been before.”
I was impressed not only with his good looks and intelligence, but with his mature Christian testimony and strong character.
Donald came over to me after the meeting ended and chatted briefly. In those few moments, I learned we had a great deal in common. He talked about his interests—athletics, God, and Christian service.
“Joni, let’s talk some more. Can I see you again?”
“Sure—come on over any time.”
It was a standard invitation. I’d extended it to many others who asked to talk with me, so I didn’t really expect him to be at our door first thing the next morning. But he was.
“Someone’s here to see you. I don’t know who he is, but he sure is good looking!” said Jay in hushed tones, waking me.
“Who? What time is it?” I yawned.
“Nine o’clock. He says his name is Don.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in awhile. Just give me a minute to wake up.” Being a late riser, this was the time I usually woke in the morning.
Jay went into the other room and chatted pleasantly for a moment or two, then excused herself to come and help me get up, dressed, and ready for the new day.
“Good morning!” I said cheerfully a half-hour later when Jay wheeled me into the other room.
“Hi!” Donald said. He bounded out of the chair and came toward me. “Hope I’m not intruding—but you did invite me, didn’t you?”
“Of course I invited you. My day usually starts around this time, so you’re not intruding.”
Donald began to talk. When he stopped for breath, it was noon. I hadn’t had breakfast and was hungry, but he showed no signs of ending the visit.
“Donald, would you like to stay for lunch?” I asked.
“Hey, I’d love to—if it’s no bother.”
Jay prepared a lunch and listened while we talked. Actually, I did most of the listening too. I learned about Donald, his family, how he met the Lord, all about his work among the young black kids in Pimlico, and his ideas for Christian service.
“Donald, would you like to stay for dinner?” asked Jay later.
“Hey, I’d love to—if it’s no bother.”
We talked through dinner and finally, after dinner, Donald rose to leave.
“Can I come back to see you?” he asked.
“Uh—well,” I hesitated, thinking he might be at the door in the morning again. “Tomorrow I have classes at college.”
“Let me take you.”
“Uh—that’s okay, Donald. Thanks, but Jay usually takes me. She knows my routine and needs.”
“Okay. Well, I’ve really enjoyed this visit. Let’s do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
The next day, he met us outside the school and spent the remainder of the day with us. At first, I was a little put off by what seemed an overbearing approach. But by the third day (when he came to the ranch again), I was beginning to like him.
At the next Young Life leadership session, he was there, smiling, handsome, and personable. During the course of the evening, Diana and I got into a friendly but heated discussion over some theological insignificance, and many of the younger people there chose sides and joined in. Yet, Donald seemed to withdraw. That was strange, since there were several new Christians at the study. I was sure he would speak up and end the confusion that Diana and I had raised in our debate.
Finally, the study ended. Donald rose and said to me, “Joni, before you turn in tonight, look up 2 Timothy 2:14 and read it. I think it’ll really speak to your heart.”
Then he left.
Excitedly, I looked for my Bible. “Hey, great! Why didn’t he tell me about this verse before?” I said, thinking it was a verse to help me convince Diana that I was right. Someone found the verse and read it to me: “Remind your people of things like this, and tell them as before God not to fight wordy battles, which help no one and may undermine the faith of some who hear them.”
I was stunned by the impact of that truth and convicted that we had argued about such a trifle that evening. Most of all, though, I felt bad about my own immaturity.
However, the other side of the coin immediately became clear to me. I was impressed with Donald’s maturity, sensitivity, and wisdom. I saw in him a man of authority, and he became more and more attractive to me. I thought of him often during the next few days.
At our next meeting, we exchanged greetings and immediately shared how much each of us was beginning to mean to the other.
“Joni, before I became a Christian, where I come from it’s every man for himself—dog eat dog, y’know? I’ve been in Christian circles for several years now, though. But, it’s funny—I’ve never experienced people showing love before. I’m really attracted to you.”
“I like you too, Donald. No one’s ever come to me before and started a friendship so easily. Usually they’re put off by my chair. It takes a while to get past my handicap. When they get to know me, they forget the chair. But with you—well, it’s like you never saw the chair in the first place.”
“Joni, I don’t know—I guess it’s my background—but I can’t cover my feelings and emotions. I won’t try to hide behind some jive talk or hypocrisy. I won’t ever con you,” he told me.
“I’m glad you don’t beat around the bush. I like it when a person isn’t afraid to say what’s on his mind,” I replied.
We saw a great deal of each other in the weeks and months that followed. Before summer ended, Donald took me to Ocean City. He stood beside my wheelchair on the boardwalk as we inhaled the fresh, salty ocean air and soaked in the sounds of gulls and waves crashing.
Old memories returned—the feel of sand between my toes and the exhilarating wetness of the surf splashing over me in the water. I sighed and sat in my chair, prepared to watch Don swim for my vicarious enjoyment.
But suddenly, seeming to sense my mood, he began pushing me off the boardwalk into the sand. The wheels bogged down, but he was strong and virtually plowed furrows toward the wet sand near the water’s edge. Here it was packed, and traction was easier.
Donald didn’t stop! He plunged ahead with a controlled recklessness until I was all the way out in the water—up to my legs.
“Don-aid! What are you doing?” I screamed. The wheelchair was completely into the rolling surf. I was both shocked and thrilled at the impromptu excitement.
People on the beach looked at this ridiculous sight, uncertain as to whether they should intervene and stop this “madman” who was “trying to drown the poor crippled girl.” My laughter and obvious enjoyment reassured them, however, and they returned to their own preoccupations.
Donald picked me up and carried me out into the breakers. I couldn’t feel it, but I knew my heart was pounding madly.
After this Ocean City experience, I was floating on air. Donald made me feel “normal” for the first time since my accident. The wheelchair was no object to get in his way—there was no pity or uncomfortable, awkward uncertainty. He treated me as he would any woman he liked. He was strong, but always gentle, giving me assurance. I knew he’d never let anything happen to me.
Donald also made me feel attractive, feminine. For the first time since my accident, I felt like a woman—appealing to someone who saw qualities of beauty in me.
As the season changed, Donald took me on picnics and trail hikes. He’d push my wheelchair as far as he could on the trail. When the path narrowed too much, he’d simply fold up the chair, pick me up, and carry me to the top of the hill. There he’d spread out a blanket, and we’d have a picnic lunch and view the scenic beauty.
We’d talk for hours, sharing God’s Word and what each of us had learned through our individual Christian experiences. These were romantic, enjoyable, spiritual times. And each one brought us closer together.
I began to worry about my growing deep affection for Donald and where such feelings might lead me. I knew I had to guard against becoming too involved, too close, guard against caring too much for him. Anything more than a “platonic” relationship would be out of the question.
By the spring of 1971, we were spending a great deal of time together. He often took me with him to his work on the street. As I watched him minister to the kids, I was even more impressed with him as a person. His strengths made him a dominant individual in every situation he faced. He was confident without being domineering.
Against my better judgment, I was allowing myself to become even closer to him, allowing strong emotional ties.
One day as I was outside drawing a picture in the warm, spring sunlight, Donald leaned over and said softly, “Joni, I love you.”
Caught up in the creative and spiritual expressions of my drawing, I said, “I love you too, Donald,” with the same inflection I’d use in saying. “Yes, you’re a good friend too, Donald.”
“Joni, I don’t think you understand—” he paused and looked intently into my eyes. “Joni—I’m falling in love with you!”
He bent down to take my face in his hands and kiss me. I was frightened. I couldn’t kiss him without weighing the importance of my actions. A kiss from another woman might be just a casual display of affection. But for me, in a wheelchair, it called for mutual commitment. I didn’t want to impose such a commitment on Donald without letting him think through the consequences.
“Look, Donald, this is—”
“But I love you.”
“I—I don’t know.” I was afraid. A relationship based on anything but friendship would be out of the question. “You—uh—we’re not able to handle it.”
As confident and self-assured as Donald was with me, I felt deep inside that even he could not ultimately deal with the complications my paralysis presented.
Later, I mentioned the episode to Diana and Jay. As I shared my emotional feelings, they both became overprotective and guarded.
“I don’t think you should get serious with Donald,” urged Jay. “You’ll both get hurt.”
“Joni,” added Diana, “I know he’s sincere and doesn’t take advantage of you. I know he’s good to be with, and I can tell he really likes you. But love? Wow, that’s something else altogether. Be careful. Please be careful.”