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“I can suggest a few things. First of all, manage the visits and phone calls. You don’t have to let everyone come whenever they want,” I said. “Be firm. If you allow everyone to come, you’ll wear yourself out trying to be nice. Your friends will understand.”

Then I turned to Brad. “Be prepared for all your therapy, because you’re going to have to do all kinds of difficult things. Do them if you want to learn to walk again. Be patient, because it will take a long time. Probably one of the best things I can tell you is this: Don’t try to act like the Lone Ranger.” I paused briefly and almost smiled, because I remembered how I had been. “Let people know where you hurt and how they can help—especially the people you trust. Let them know so they can do things for you. Let them pray for you. You’ve got a lot of nice folks coming by here, and they want to bring you a cake, cook a meal, or do something for you. Let them express their friendship and love.”

After I had talked a few minutes, I got up to leave. I wrote down my phone number. “Call me. If you’re struggling to go to sleep at three o’clock in the morning or you’re angry, call me. I’ll listen. I’ll understand because I can understand. It’s a small fraternity, and none of us joined it by choice.”

Before I left, Brad said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming by. Just visiting with somebody who knows about the pain helps me a lot. You’re the first person I’ve met who understands what it’s like to live with pain twenty-four hours a day.”

“It’s not something I set out to do—visiting people who are where I was,” I said, “but I’m willing to do it. I want to help, but you’re going to have to make the effort to call me. Remember—don’t try to tough it out alone.”

Brad’s wife followed me out to the car and said, “He needed this. In public he tries to be the source of strength and sound positive. In quiet moments he’s frustrated and emotional, and he falls apart. I’ve been really worried about him. Never in our lives together have I seen him this way.”

“I remember my wife working hard all day teaching school and then coming to spend the evening with me,” I said. “Just hang in with him. He will get better.”

I told her that one time when I was at my worst, Eva had tried to encourage me and had said something like, “Just give it time. You’re going to be fine.”

I had exploded with frustration and rage—“What makes you think I’m going to be fine? What are the odds of my ever being fine? Nobody can ever tell me that. Nobody can promise me that.”

To her credit, Eva hadn’t argued. She’d wrapped her arms around me. I had wept. I had never done that before in her presence.

After I told that story to Brad’s wife, I said, “Be prepared for changes in your life and his. He can’t control his emotions, but don’t take it as a personal attack when he yells or screams. It’s the pain and the frustration, not you.” I shook her hand and said, “And for goodness’ sake, call me if you need me. Push Brad to call me.”

After that, I saw Brad four or five times. Weeks later when he was able to get out of the house with his walker, I spotted him in a restaurant. I went over to his table and sat down. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m doing okay. Really okay.” He thanked me again for coming at one of his lowest moments. He still wasn’t in top shape, but he was getting healthy again. When he clasped my hand and held it a long time, I knew it was his way of expressing his appreciation in ways he couldn’t put into words.

I felt grateful to God for being able to help Brad in his dark time.

About two years after my accident, I heard that Chad Vowell had been in a serious car accident. He had been a member of our youth ministry at South Park, and his parents were among the most supportive parents I had at the church. His mother, Carol, was on the committee that came to my hospital room with others to plan youth retreats. I hadn’t been very helpful, but it had been their way of making me feel useful and needed.

Chad had been an outstanding soccer player and was with our youth