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It wasn’t just clumping up the stairs, but the auditorium was so full that the only places left to sit were in the top rows. Our young people, naturally, raced ahead to claim those seats. They promised to save one for me on the end. I counted 150 steps as I painfully made my way up.

By the time I finally reached the top, exhaustion had overcome me. I could hardly walk the last flight and across the back of the auditorium to the seat the kids had saved for me. Before I sat down—which also demanded a lot of effort—I rested by leaning against the wall. As I tried to catch my breath, I asked myself, What am I doing here?

I could have gotten other adults to take the kids, but I really wanted to be with them. I wanted to feel useful again. I also knew this would be an exciting event for the youth, and I wanted to be part of it. Boisterous laughter and shouting back and forth filled the place. The youth were ready to be blessed and challenged, but at that moment, I didn’t think about the kids or how much they would get out of the meeting. I thought only of being worn out.

At that moment self-pity took over. As I continued to lean against the wall, my gaze swept the auditorium. Two sections over I spotted a teenage boy in a wheelchair. He was sitting with his head in his hands, his back to me. As I stared at him, I knew I had to go over and talk to him. Suddenly I didn’t question my actions and I forgot about being tired.

I leaned my crutches against the wall and then slowly, painfully made my way across to his section and down the steps. He was a large, good-looking kid, maybe sixteen years old. When I got closer, I realized why I needed to talk to him. He was wearing an Ilizarov frame—which I hadn’t been able to see from where I had stood. My tiredness vanished, along with my anger and self-pity. It was as if I saw myself in that wheelchair and reexperienced all the pain of those days.

He was looking away from me when I laid my hand on his shoulder. His head spun around and he glared at me.

“That really hurts doesn’t it?” I asked.

He looked at me as if to say, What kind of fool are you? Instead he said, “Yeah. It hurts very much.”

“I know.” I patted his shoulder. “Believe me, I know.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“I do. I had one too.”

“It’s horrible.”

“I know that. It’s just horrible. I wore one on my left leg for eleven months.”

“Nobody ever understands,” he said plaintively.

“They can’t. It’s not something you can talk about and have anyone understand your pain.”

For the first time I saw something in his eyes. Maybe it was hope, or maybe just a sense of peace because at long last he had found someone who knew what he was going through. We had connected, and I felt privileged to be standing next to him.

“My name is Don,” I said, “and you’ve just met somebody who understands the pain and the discouragement you’re going through.”

He stared at me, and then his eyes moistened. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it.”

“You’re going to make it. Trust me, you’ll make it.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What happened?” By then I’d realized it hadn’t been a voluntary surgery.

“I had a ski accident.”

I noticed that he was wearing a letter jacket. I asked, “You a football player?”

“Yes, sir.”

Briefly I told him about my accident, and he told me more about what had happened to him. “I’m going to tell you something,” I said. “One day you will walk again.”

His face registered skepticism.

“You might not play football again, but you’ll walk.” I handed him my business card. “My number is on the card, and you can call me anytime, day or night, twenty-four hours a day.”

He took the card and stared at it.

“I’m going to walk back up there to my kids.” I pointed to where they sat. “I want you to watch me. And as you watch, I want you to know that one day you will walk too.” I laughed. “And I’ll bet you’ll walk better than I do.”

He reached up, grabbed me, and hugged me. He held me tight for a long time. I could