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“You’ve found somebody who understands,” I said. “Please call me.”

That boy needed somebody who understood. I don’t know that I had much to offer, but I had my experience and I could talk to him about pain. Had I not gone through it myself, I’d just be telling him, “I hope you feel better. You’re going to be okay”—well-meaning words that most people used.

When I reached the top row, perspiration drenched my body from all the effort, but I didn’t care. I turned around. He still stared at me. I smiled and waved, and he waved back. The dejection and despair had left his face.

Over the next six months, I received three calls from him, two just to talk and one late at night when he was really discouraged. They were phone calls I will always cherish, one struggling pilgrim to another.

One time, a Houston TV station scheduled me to appear on a live talk show. While I was waiting in their greenroom, the producer came in and began to explain how the show worked and some of the questions I could expect to be asked.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Who else is a guest on the show?”

“You’re it.”

“Wait a minute. You’re going to do an hour-long show and I’m the only guest?”

“That’s right.”

I wondered what I would talk about for an hour. It was fairly early in my recovery, and at the time I had no idea how interested people were in my story. By then the doctor had removed the Ilizarov frame and I was wearing braces and using crutches. I had brought pictures of me in the hospital, which they televised that day. And I brought the Ilizarov device itself.

Once the TV interview started, I told my story, and then the host asked me questions. The hour passed quickly. While we were still live on the show, a woman called the TV station and insisted, “I need to talk to Reverend Piper immediately.”

They wouldn’t interrupt the program, but as soon as the program ended, someone handed me a slip of paper with her telephone number. I called her.

“You’ve got to talk to my brother,” she said.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He was involved in a fight in a bar, and another man pulled out a shotgun and blew his leg off. He’s wearing one of those things like you used to have on your leg.”

“Of course I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Where is he?”

“He’s home in bed.”

“Give me the address and I’ll go—”

“Oh no, you can’t go over there. He’s angry and mean. And he’s violent. He won’t talk to anybody who comes to see him.” She gave me his telephone number. “Please call him, but he’s so mean right now, I guarantee that he’ll cuss you out.” Then she added, “And he may just hang up on you, but try him anyway. Please.”

As soon as I got home, I called her brother and introduced myself. Before I had spoken more than three sentences, he did just what she had predicted. He yelled at me. He screamed and let me have it with just about every swear word I’d ever heard, and he repeated them several times.

When he paused I said quietly, “I had one of those things on my leg that you have—that fixator.”

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, so I said, “I wore one of those Ilizarov devices on my left leg. I know what you must be going through.”

“Oh, man, this is killing me. It hurts all the time. It’s just—” and he went off again as if he hadn’t heard me, peppering his anger with a lot of profanity.

When he paused again, I said, “I understand what it feels like to have one of them.”

“You don’t have it anymore?”

“No, I finally got it off. If you do what you’re supposed to do, you can get yours off one day.” That didn’t sound like much, but it was the only thing I could think to say.

“If I had some wrenches I’d take it off right now.”

“If you take it off, you might as well cut your leg off, because it’s the only thing that’s holding your leg on.”

“I know that, but it’s just killing me. I can’t sleep—” Then he went on again, telling me how miserable he was and how much he hated everything.

Then something occurred to me, and I interrupted him. “What does your