Dearest Joni,
I do not usually struggle to write. Yet, I’ve wrestled with these opening sentences more than I want to confess. I just can’t find the words or the way to thank you for your influence.
When I was twelve years old, I met you in the tear-stained pages of Joni.
I guess most of the time, beloved books are well worn. But not this book, though I’ve had it for almost thirty years. No, I have kept my copy of Joni with care; it felt like the story of a friend.
About the time I was reading it for the first time, I also heard an unusual word for the first time: lupus. Even to the young writer that I was, it was a particular sting to be labeled with a word that isn’t beautiful to see or say. Lupus is a word that sounds ugly and looks uglier, even apart from its meaning.
So many years later, I understand. Only an ugly word could represent this disease.
That year — the year of my diagnosis, the year I read Joni — I learned that lupus was attacking my kidneys. Large doses of steroids were the only hope of avoiding a transplant. I remember thinking about your time in the hospital as I faced my own, and it gave me strength. I felt connected to you through shared perseverance and shared hope.
It never occurred to me that we would soon be connected in another way.
See, they can transplant a kidney, but they can’t transplant a brain.
Only six weeks after my twentieth birthday, complications with lupus caused a massive brainstem stroke that left me quadriplegic. My eyelids would not open. My mouth would not move. My spirit almost broke. Then, kneeling beside my bed in the ICU, my mother whispered something that would stir a new hope in me:
“Remember Joni.”
It was all she needed to say. Those two words created a complete message for me: There is life after accidents, after trauma, after illness, after disability. After wheelchairs and walkers and canes. There is abundant life for us. There is purpose and work still to do. There is no reason, no reason, no reason to give up, even in the face of great disappointment. So, I remembered you there in the Intensive Care Unit and in every stage of my rehabilitation. I cannot overestimate the impact of your life upon my mindset during those critical days. If I had not had your example of security in God, I might have questioned His faithful presence beside me in my struggles much more than I did. Much more than I do. You have greatly contributed to my life.
To all of our lives.
We all feel like we know you, Joni. The vulnerability and honesty in your writing has given us access to your courage. But you didn’t stop there. The sweet songs you sing, the stunning smile you wear, the lovely art you create, the faithful life you live — all of it is a blessing too rich for us. You are a beauty-giver, and you have given us many beautiful gifts. You give beauty and more beauty, and there is no setback or circumstance that has stopped you from the good work that God prepared in advance for you to do.
And as if this were not enough, in your most beautiful work of all, you reach out to provide assistance and wheelchairs to people who cannot afford their own.
We are humbled to tears.
Many of us have asked for healing, and many of us have heard No, but you took your No and turned it into a million Yesses in answer to prayers all over the globe.
The world is better because of you, Joni. Through you, God has shown us what He can do with a heart surrendered. You motivate us to surrender, too.
Please accept an abundance of birthday prayers and blessings from this Texas girl you’ve never met. I will donate here (Donate to Joni & Friends) in honor of you. But I wish I could give you a big, bright package on your 65th birthday.
In it, there would be running shoes.
Because when I see you in heaven, the race is on.
Happy Birthday.