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“That’s fantastic.”

“Some of them are very simple. None of them are big, but there are thousands of things I can still do.”

The blind man had changed so radically that his friend asked, “Tell me what made you change.”

“I’ve decided to do all the stuff I can. The more I thought about it, the fewer limitations I saw. There are thousands of things I can do—and I’m going to do them for the rest of my life.”

After I read that article, I thought, That’s exactly what I need—not mourning, pining, and going back over the way things used to be or what I used to have that I don’t have anymore. Instead, I need to discover what I have now, not only to celebrate but also to recognize I’m not helpless.

As I continued to ponder that idea, I realized I had more going for me than I thought. I had focused so heavily on my losses that I had forgotten what I had left. And I hadn’t realized the opportunities I might never have tried otherwise.

In the article, the blind man said something like, “I’m not going to worry about what I can’t do. I’m going to do what I can do well.” Those words seemed simple.

I read that article at just the right time, and the words seemed incredibly profound. God had sent the message I needed when I needed it. It was one of those powerful moments that caused me to say, “I’ve got to get on with my life. Whatever I have, I’m going to use it and magnify it to the max.”

I’m running out of time, I thought, but so is everyone else. I suppose I’m more conscious of time than some people are for two reasons: First, I lost a big chunk of my life because of the accident. Second, I know we don’t get to stay long on this earth. As many of the old hymns say, we’re really like strangers passing through. It’s something we all know from reading the Bible and other books, but those realizations became a wake-up call for me.

I also know that my loved ones are waiting for me at the gate. Some days I can’t wait to get back there.

I also realize that I have to wait until God sends me back.

Members of South Park Baptist Church moved our family while I was hospitalized. We had been living in a town called Friendswood, about ten miles from the church. We had needed a place nearer the church but hadn’t found one. While I was in the hospital, the church leaders found a house, rented it, packed up everything for us, and moved us. When I got out of the hospital, I entered a house I had never seen before. After the ambulance backed up and unloaded me from a gurney to my home hospital bed, I stared at our house for the first time.

I soon adjusted to the new living quarters, because for a long time I could only see the living room, where they set up my hospital bed.

In some ways the move into the rented house was more difficult on the family than on me. I sensed some of the adjustments and difficulties my wife went through with my illness. Eva almost lost her job because she had spent so much time with me that she ran out of conference days, vacation days, and sick days. Other teachers donated their own sick days to her so she could come and be with me in the hospital. Eventually, she ran out of those donated days and had to go back to work. She was our primary source of income.

Eva’s colleagues at Robert Louis Stevenson Primary School in Alvin often graded her papers for her, wrote her lesson plans, and covered her classes when she left early to come see me in the hospital. Her fellow teachers even made little gifts to give our kids each day so they would have something to look forward to. They called them “surprise boxes.” Fellow teachers also came to our home, along with church members, to clean our house and bring meals. Had it not been for the teachers and the church, Eva would have certainly lost her job and so would I. Yet even with all these incredibly sacrificial gifts and assistance, how she and our children got through that spring semester of 1989 remains a miracle.

One time when Eva inquired about my long-term prognosis, a nurse told her, “Honey, you don’t need to know all of that, you’re just a wife.”

To that nurse,