CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 15
During the fall of 1972, I began to ask serious questions about my future. “Lord,” I asked, “if not college, if not Donald, then what? What do You have for me?”
I believed that if God took something away from me, He would always replace it with something better. My experience had taught me this as I relied on the sovereignty of God. “Delight thyself in God,” the psalmist said, “trust in His way.” As I did so, it became easier to express true gratitude for what He brought into my life—good as well as suffering.
The suffering and pain of the past few years had been the ingredients that had helped me mature emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I felt confident and independent, trusting in the Lord for my physical and emotional needs.
Pain and suffering have purpose. We don’t always see this clearly. The apostle Paul suffered for Christ. His experience included imprisonment, beatings, stonings, shipwreck, and some physical “thorn in the flesh.” The blessing of suffering is, as J. B. Phillips interprets Romans 5:3-5, “we can be full of joy here and now even in our trials and troubles. Taken in the right spirit, these very things will give us patient endurance; this in turn will develop a mature character, and a character of this sort produces a steady hope, a hope that will never disappoint us.”
I believed He was working in my life to create grace and wisdom out of the chaos of pain and depression.
Now all these experiences began to find visible expression in my art. At first, I drew for fun; then, to occupy my time; finally, to express my feelings for what God was doing in me. I sensed, somehow, that my artwork fit into the scheme of things. Perhaps it would be the “something better.”
But the last thing I wanted was for people to admire my drawings simply because they were drawn by someone in a wheelchair holding a pen in her mouth. I wanted my work to be good in itself—in creativity and craftsmanship. That’s why I was both pleased and proud at having my work displayed in a local art festival—for its own sake, and not because of my handicap.
For the first time, I threw myself fully into my artwork. I sketched pictures of things that had beauty rather than things that expressed emotions or hurts I’d experienced. It was a positive collection, with hope reflected in the drawings of animals, scenes, and people. As a result, people accepted them. They were attracted to my sketches of youngsters, mountains, flowers, and forest animals because of the common beauty such subjects expressed.
I honestly felt God had brought me to this place and had even greater blessings in store. I never would have believed this a year or two earlier, but I had now come to the place where the “something better” was in being single. I read in 1 Corinthians 6 and 7 that there could be a calling higher than marriage for some. A single woman could devote herself to being holy with fewer distractions if she had no husband, family, or house to care for, and I was free from a house-oriented routine. True, I did not have the pleasures and privileges that go with such a role, but God had substituted other joys, and I was more than fulfilled. I had my own freedom to come and go without having to maintain a schedule involving others. I could travel, keep late work hours, read, talk, or whatever I chose. It was a great freedom.
People often said to me, “You had no choice about being single. That’s why you can accept that role more easily than I can. That’s why you can be joyful. But I am lonely, frustrated, and unfulfilled.”
“I’m not sure it’s easier for me,” I told them. “Every person who is faced with the prospect of singlehood should trust God’s wisdom. Because I did not trust Him for my own life but sought to engineer His will in my relationship with Donald, I was also frustrated. But when I had no choice but acceptance, trust, and surrender, this did become easy for me. If we accept this handicap from God, we are freed from the constant agony and anxiety of wondering, worrying, and desperate searching. Not knowing the future and worrying about it causes most of our bitterness and grief.”
“You mean I should give up hoping to be married at all?” a girl asked me once.
“I’m saying that acceptance of the role of being single ends the frustration of not knowing,” I replied. “But that’s the hardest part. Surrender to the idea of being forever single, with all the sacrifices that implies, is the most difficult. But once acceptance is made, living with that role is easier.”
“That sounds like just giving up,” she observed.
“Maybe it is. This is not to say God will never allow us to marry someday. Maybe He will; maybe He won’t. What I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter because we leave the choice and decision with Him. We trust His judgment that ‘all things work together for our good’ if we love God.”
“But I feel I have needs to be fulfilled—that I have a right to be married!”
“Only God is capable of telling us what our rights and needs are. You have to surrender that right to Him. Begin your life as a single person, working and living according to the priorities of serving and glorifying Him. In turn, God gives a rich and satisfying life. In place of one partner, He brings many friends into our lives to meet our emotional needs and loneliness.”
“That’s what you’ve experienced, Joni?”
“Yes. And it gets better. Maybe God will give you back that right to be married after you surrender it completely. He may bring someone into your life after all. But holding tightly onto that hope and thinking constantly about the possibility of it happening is terribly frustrating.”
Young people listened respectfully when I shared these concepts with them. But I could always see the reservation and holding back in their eyes. It was difficult for them to comprehend how a handicap of being single could be better than the joys of marriage.
“Scripture says,” I reminded them, “in 1 Corinthians, ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of men, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.’ The apostle was comparing the natural man with the spiritual man in this passage, but I also think it could apply to us concerning our future.”
“What do you mean?” a girl asked me one day.
“Well, we think of the greatest experiences of love, tenderness, and feelings we might have with a guy—all the beautiful things that have entered into the heart, mind, eye, and ear. God is saying These are nothing compared to what lies ahead. I still don’t know what this means. But I’ve found that God never places any real emphasis on the present—except as preparation for the future. We only have a limited sense of reality. This doesn’t mean I’m preoccupied with heaven and the hereafter. It just helps me put things into perspective.”
“But don’t you think that’s true for you because you’re in a wheelchair?” someone usually asked.
“No, I don’t think so. This is a universal truth. A lot of people who aren’t in wheelchairs still have to deal with being single, just as I do. It can be a source of constant irritation and frustration, or it can be a joy.”
“You mean you believe you’ll never marry?”
“No. I have no feeling one way or the other. I’m not sure that I will never marry. Or that I will. I’m content, whether I marry or not.”
“Well, what about those of us who haven’t come to that place where we can accept that role as easily as you?”
“If you’re single, with no plans or prospects, just live as though God will have you remain single until He brings someone or something better into your life.”
“Sort of like that verse you quoted—‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,’ right?” someone asked.
“Yes. Sometimes I recall experiences of feeling—of running through grassy fields, swimming in a cool, clear stream, climbing up a rugged mountain, smelling flowers, riding a horse—all the sensations I’d have on my feet. But God says all of this together can’t compare with the glory and future reality He has prepared for me. It’s as I said before—the future is the only reality that counts. The only thing we can take to heaven with us is our character. Our character is all we have to determine what kind of a being we will be for all eternity. It’s what we are that will be tested by fire. Only the qualities of Christ in our character will remain.”
I was grateful for these opportunities to explain how God was working in my life. I began to see a mature purpose in all His dealings with me, and I was happier than I had ever been. My experiences charged me with creative energy and a maturity I didn’t have before, and my art had a new quality and professionalism.
I experimented with various papers, pens, pencils, and charcoal. I tried different approaches and techniques, finally settling on the elements that seemed to work best. Using a sharp, felt-tip Flair pen, I sketched with precision and control. I gave drawings to friends as wedding presents and Christmas gifts. This demand for my art kept me fairly busy. However, I had still not found an outlet for my drawings that would enable me to derive income from them and become gainfully employed—and more independent.
Then one day an insurance executive called on my father at his downtown office. Neill Miller is an energetic, good-natured, successful Christian businessman. He is Senior Field Underwriter for the Aetna Life and Casualty Company, as well as being actively involved with several Baltimore charity drives. Neill Miller sees opportunities where other people see obstacles. Through his efforts, national celebrities have become interested in the causes he represents and have volunteered their services and talents.
During his visit with dad, Mr. Miller noticed one of my drawings on the wall of the office.
“I really like that drawing, Mr. Eareckson. Is it an original?” he asked.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, my daughter drew it,” dad replied.
“Really? She’s quite an artist. It has a great deal of character as well as realistic detail. She has an original style—it shows unusual discipline,” observed Mr. Miller.
“Thank you. I’ll tell her.” Then dad said, “You might be interested to know that Joni—that’s my daughter—is paralyzed. She has to draw holding the pen in her mouth.”
“That’s even more remarkable!” Mr. Miller stood up and examined the drawing more closely. “Amazing. Absolutely amazing.”
“She’s never had any formal training,” dad explained. “I’ve dabbled in art most of my life, and I suppose she’s inherited my interest in art. But her talent and style are her own.”
“Has she exhibited her art?” Mr. Miller asked.
“No, not really—just at a couple festivals. She does it for fun. She draws for friends and family mostly.”
“Well, we can’t let such talent go unnoticed,” exclaimed Mr. Miller. “Do you think she’d object if I arranged a small art exhibit for her?”
“Why, I’m sure she’d be delighted.”
“Fine! Let me see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Miller telephoned dad later to say that he had arranged for a small exhibition at a local restaurant. Dad took all the original drawings I’d been working on for the past several months to the Town and Country Restaurant in the center of downtown Baltimore. The Town and Country is a popular, prestigious gathering place for local businessmen and important political figures.
I expected a small, informal gathering of people to look at my drawings, chat, and go on their way, as that was the pattern I’d observed at several other art exhibits with other artists. I secretly hoped I might even be able to sell one or two drawings.
Jay, Diana, and I drove downtown the morning of the exhibit. We had been told to arrive at ten o’clock. As Jay turned onto South Street toward the restaurant, we found the avenue blocked off.
“That’s strange,” I remarked. “They’re not working on the road or anything. Why would they block off a main street like this?”
“I don’t know. I’ll turn down this side street and cut over,” said Jay.
“Wait. You can’t get through there either. There’s a policeman directing traffic.”
“It must be something for the Chamber of Commerce,” remarked Diana.
“Yeah. Maybe a Lincoln’s birthday parade or something,” added Jay.
“It must be a parade—look,” I exclaimed.
“A big brass band. How exciting. Too bad we’re going to the exhibit. We could watch it,” Jay smiled.
“Maybe you can turn down—” I didn’t finish the sentence.
We all saw it at the same time and gasped, unbelieving.
The brass band was in front of the Town and Country. And blazoned across the front of the building was a huge banner declaring “Joni Eareckson Day.” A television camera crew was standing there waiting, along with a growing crowd of people.
“Oh, no! What’s happening?” I cried. “Jay, quick! Turn into the alley before they see us!”
The car came to a stop between the buildings, comfortably out of sight of the commotion.
“What am I going to do?” I asked Jay. “This is incredible. What has he done?”
“Oh, wow, Joni. I’ve never seen anything like this. He did say ‘small’ exhibition, didn’t he?”
We sat there several minutes trying to decide what to do. When it was obvious we had no choice but to go ahead with the event, Jay backed the car around and pulled up to the restaurant.
I prayed inwardly that Jay, in her own nervousness, would not drop me as she and Mr. Miller lifted me from the car into my wheelchair.
I said under my breath, “Mr. Miller, what have you done?” But before he could explain, I was besieged.
Reporters from the Baltimore News-American and a local NBC television affiliate were asking questions. I blinked and sheepishly tried to collect my thoughts. A liveried, chauffeurdriven representative of FTD brought me a beautiful bouquet of roses. An official from city hall read a proclamation from the mayor announcing a local art appreciation week and honoring me in the “Joni Eareckson Day” ceremonies. I was overwhelmed and somewhat embarrassed by all the attention.
I said to Mr. Miller, “Is all this really necessary?” I thought perhaps the entire focus of the exhibit would be lost or at least misconstrued, with everyone’s attention turning to the wheelchair. Yet, as the event unfolded that was not the case at all, and I apologized for my hasty judgment. Perhaps I’d grown too sensitive in this area, half-expecting the usual pity and put-down accorded to people in wheelchairs. I had already experienced (a fact confirmed by the National Paraplegic Foundation) the difficulty of getting people who didn’t know me to accept me as an intellectual equal.
Perhaps I overreact to this type of situation, but I am intensely interested in getting people to relate to me, my art, or my Christian witness strictly on their own merits. I don’t want my chair to be the overriding focus as I talk to people, whether about art or Christ.
I’m not upset about the chair, so don’t you be, I want to tell people.
The ceremonies were excellent, and the focus on my art was not lost. The questions of reporters dealt primarily with my art; the chair was merely background.
Mr. Miller told me, “Joni, your sights are set too low. You don’t realize just how good your art is. I’m sorry if all this embarrassed you at first. But I guess I don’t believe in doing things in a small way.”
The excitement peaked following the ceremonies, and the rest of the exhibit followed the standard procedures for such events.
People asked:
“Where do you get the ideas for your drawings?”
“How long does it take to complete a picture?”
“Did you study art professionally?”
When the crowd thinned at one point, Mr. Miller brought a tall, good-looking young man over and introduced him. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, and he looked uncomfortable.
“I wanted him to talk to you, Joni,” Mr. Miller said and walked away, leaving us awkwardly looking at one another.
“I’m happy to meet you,” I said. “Won’t you sit down?” He sat at the nearby table without speaking, and I began to feel uneasy.
Why was he here? He didn’t seem to want to talk to me. My efforts at small talk were hopeless. Yet I could tell by his eyes something was bothering him.
Trying once more, I asked, “What do you do?”
“Nothing.” Then, almost as a concession, he muttered, “I used to be a fireman. But I can’t work now.”
“Oh?” What do I say now? “Uh—will you tell me about it?”
“It was an accident.”
“Yes?”
He shuffled nervously in his seat. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know why I’m here. Miller told me I ought to come and talk to you—that you had a rough time a while back with—uh—with your handicap.”
“Yeah—I sure did. I guess I’d have killed myself if I’d been able to use my arms. I was really depressed. But—” I paused, letting him know I still didn’t know what his problem was.
His handsome young face was contorted with anguish. He raised his arms, taking his hands from his coat pockets. But he had no hands—only scarred stumps where they had been amputated.
“Look at these ugly stumps!” he said. “My hands were burned in a fire—and they’re gone. And I just can’t cope!”
The frustration, pent-up rage, and bitterness poured out as his voice broke.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, “but Mr. Miller was right. I can help you, I think.”
“How?” he said sharply. “I’ll never get my hands back.”
“I know. I don’t mean to sound glib. But I’ve been where you are. I know the anger, the feelings of unfairness—of being robbed, cheated of your self-respect. I had those same feelings. Maybe it’s worse for a man—you know, trying to be independent and self-supporting. But I think I can identify with you.”
I told him something of my own experiences at the hospital and Greenoaks. I told him that his feelings were natural.
“But how’d you get over it? How do you cope with your handicap? You’re cheerful, not at all cynical today. Where do you get the power to pull it off?” he asked.
“Boy, that’s quite a story. Would you like to hear it?”
He nodded. I told him how a relationship with Jesus Christ gives access to God and all His power. I shared how God had been working in my life the past few years and how He alone helped me face my fears and take on the tasks of living. Then I shared with him the simple gospel message I had heard as a fifteen-year-old at Young Life camp.
His face brightened as we talked. For nearly a half hour, I shared the principles God had taught me. When he left, he said, “Thanks, Joni. Neill Miller was right. You have helped me. I’ll try again. Thanks.”
(Today, this young man is enthusiastic about life again and is chief spokesman in the school system for the city fire department.)
Meanwhile, the exhibit at the Town and Country drew to a close, and Neill Miller’s idea turned out to be the event that launched my art career. By early evening, I was stunned to learn I’d sold about a thousand dollars’ worth of original drawings at fifty to seventy-five dollars each!
The event also got exposure for my work on Channel 11 in Baltimore: in addition to covering the exhibit, they invited me to be on a local talk show and feature my art.
Seymour Kopf, of the Baltimore News-American, carried a full feature in his column.
“Why do you sign your drawings ‘PTL’?” Mr. Kopf had asked. He recorded my full answer in his column:
“It stands for ‘praise the Lord.’ You see, Mr. Kopf, God loves us—He does care. For those who love God, everything—even what happened to me at age seventeen—works together for good. God has been good to me. He has ingrained the reflection of Christ into my character, developed my happiness, my patience, my purpose in life. He has given me contentment. My art is a reflection of how God can empower someone like me to rise above circumstances.”
I was invited to participate in local art shows later that spring. The exhibit also opened the doors for me to address Christian women’s clubs, schools, church groups, and civic functions where I not only showed my art, but shared my Christian testimony as well. I even made a special tour of the White House, where I left one of my drawings for First Lady, Pat Nixon.
Other TV and radio appearances were offered, and each new contact seemed to generate additional stories or appearances.
On the strength of growing art sales, I was thrilled to see a small measure of independence. I wouldn’t have to be a financial burden on anyone but would now be able to earn my own money. I even created a line of greeting cards and prints from several of my drawings, and these began to sell well too. We named this company Joni PTL, and it expanded rapidly.
About this time, a close friend, Andy Byrd, told me of his plan to buy a Christian bookstore franchise and open a store; he wondered if I would like to have a partnership. We talked to Ken Wagner who became a third partner.
Our plans were not only exciting but seemed like a solid business investment. A Christian bookstore was something many of us had prayed for as a necessary element for Western Baltimore.
Finally, in September, 1973, after months of plans, prayer, and hard work, there was a grand opening of the Logos Bookstore, 1120 North Rolling Road, in the Rolling Road Plaza shopping mall. Just before the store opened, amid boxes of materials, books to price, and supplies, we prayed. Our prayer of dedication was for the many secular-oriented shoppers passing by—that our store would be a center of Christian concern and outreach where people could come for help.
I used the store as a center for selling original art and prints of several originals. These sold almost as quickly as I drew them. Between the bookstore, speaking engagements, and art fairs or festivals, it was difficult to keep up with the demand.
I developed a brief testimony sheet, which I printed and handed out at art shows while I was drawing. It explained my unusual drawing methods and faith in Christ and became a great tool for counseling and witnessing as people who came to watch stopped to chat and discuss the power of God in my life.
Through all the activities and events, there was one overriding focus to all this: that, humanly speaking, my art would help me gain independence, and, more important, that it would be used to glorify God.