To Hope, Despite It All

"There's always been this thing
I've had this stage-fright
It's kept me from the ring
Hate the spotlight
And I don't wanna sing
But I have to
... and I have to be brave
even though I'm still afraid"
 - Fear Of Failure, by Seawolf 


Here's an old story. Once, I met Joni Eareckson Tada, and it was so beautiful.

Her story, for those who don't know: in 1967, at age 17, Joni (which is pronounced like Johnny, after her father), dove into the Chesapeake Bay, intending to swim. The water was far more shallow than she judged; she hit her head on the bottom of the bay and became quadriplegic. What followed was despair over her incredible loss, yet eventually, hope. She learned to paint by holding the paintbrush in her mouth, successfully selling her art and inspiring others. She wrote a book about her experience, which became a best seller, which became a movie, which led to her founding an organization called Joni and Friends, which brings help to people with disabilities. In 2019, she celebrated 40 years of ministry, with her art and message of hope being spread around the world. 


I was on a trip to California. My boss at the time was from there: she started a maternity home in California before moving to Texas and founding one there. I was her Administrative Assistant, and traveled with her to help with some speaking engagements and meeting with members of the Board. One of those members worked at Joni and Friends. She asked, would we like to visit? My breath caught in my chest. Joni had been a hero of mine ever since I'd heard her story as a child. Yes, oh yes.

I remember walking into the headquarters of Joni and Friends and it feeling spacious; a large atrium with offices and conference rooms all around the sides. In the very center there's a small chapel, a building inside a building. I don't recall the specifics of what it looked like. Instead, what has stayed with me all these years later is the board member, smiling, and telling us softly, "Joni likes to go in there and sing." Her voice held a balm of beauty and reverence.

We had walked into another part of the building when Joni came through the door. Joni, right there in her wheelchair, smiling broadly at each of us. I was literally tongue-tied, suddenly thinking, "What's the proper way to pronounce her name?" terrified of goofing up.
"Hi, I'm Joni," she said.
"Hi, I'm Sonnet, it's so great to meet you." I wanted to be at eye level with her. I felt too tall and awkward. I started to reach out to shake her hand, a normal reaction, realizing too late that was impossible, so I think I touched her shoulder lightly instead. I was smiling like a fool. She was there, right there, so real. This person whose art I'd admired since I was a child. This person whose story had brought me to tears. This person who deeply encouraged and inspired so many. Beautiful.

I think of that day, and I want to remember her bravery in everyday life; all she's overcome, accomplished, and given to others. Bravery to start painting and speaking publicly, and in the everyday not-publicly-known things, not least of all what it takes to sing in a chapel in the midst of a building full of people, simply for the unbridled joy of it.

We can't know what our legacy will be, each of us individually. I think it's part of the human condition to want to be known and remembered. Anne Lamott has described death as "and then the great eraser came down from the sky", taking a loved one away from this earth. Yet she also writes, with her signature blend of brash tenderness, of what is remembered by those who remain. I can sense the fierce love in her words. Maybe in the end, there is no measurement of legacy or impact except for how well we loved and were loved.

In her memoir, Joni writes of the utter despair she faced after the accident. The pain and complete helplessness. It was a long time before she actively wanted to keep on living. Now, it's hard to imagine the world without her influence on the disabled community. Her legacy grows, not just with each speech or painting or event, but with each person who hears her story and makes the decision to hope. Most of us won't have a legacy as large, yet I firmly believe that every person's life touches far, far more than we know. If we feel small, yet are kind, we likely have a larger presence than we realize.

So, may we do what good we can each day for those around us. May we sing whether anyone is listening or not, whichever the braver and truer choice may be. May we never give up hope, and may we continually seek ways to inspire hope in others, and may we measure the impact of our lives in love.