We have heard the phrase, “everyone has a story.” Everyone is a story. Experiences in one’s life are layers that have made them who they are. We do not know who they are or what their life has been. However, if we talked with them, I am confident we would be wiser somehow.
My husband had an appointment with a new doctor. As he was filling out papers, an older couple came in, followed by a man in a motorized wheelchair. It was their son. They sat opposite me; soon, the nurse called the gentleman and his wife into the back. I had brought a book I had been reading and had just opened it up. I heard someone ask, “Chuck, “is there was anyone you’d like to know about physical records?” He said,” No.” I raised my hand and called out, “Me.”
My husband is a bit hard hearing. The nurse asked him again, and he said, “No.” Once again. I raised my hand again, waving at the nurse. “Me!.” She looked at me and back at Chuck and laughing and said, “She said, her.” He turned around, looked at me and laughed, and said, “Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t resist; I said, “After all these years, he will not keep any secrets from me!” Everyone laughed.
The man in the wheelchair motored over toward my chair as Chuck walked back to sit down. He rolled to greet Chuck; with a pulled smile, he held up his left fist for a fist pump. Chuck responded. With a grin on my face, I told the man, “Don’t encourage him!” Everyone in the waiting office was laughing.
Ryan could not speak or smile, but his blue eyes did. What a personality! He motioned, asking our names by pointing to us, then to himself. We introduced ourselves. There was a mat in front of him with letters and numbers. He pointed out his name. RYAN. The nurse came for Chuck; he turned and asked me, “Are you coming?” No, I think I’ll stay here and visit with Ryan,” I said.
I notice at the top of his mat were three circles. I didn’t see the first one, but the other two said, Hope and Faith. I pointed to faith and asked him, “Do you have faith?” Slightly, he nodded his head. Then I spelled out the name of Jesus on his mat. “Do you know Him?” Ryan became excited to tell me his story. He would point to letters with minute hand gestures. He put his arm out and move it up and down.
I started to guessing. Ryan’s smiling eyes told me I wasn’t doing well. Finally, Ryan drew his hand over the board as if to clear it and for me to start over. He pointed out to spell the word A-n-g-e-l. Laughing, I said. “I’m an angel!” Shaking his head and smiling.
I said, “You are an angel? “I could see he was laughing, although no sound came. He was trying so hard. He was trying to sign language. I told Ryan, “You have to help me here.” I felt his a big smile and spelled out more.
About then, his mother came in and said his father was ready, and it was time for him to go to the back. I shared our conversation with his mother and told her I didn’t understand but wanted to know what he was telling me.
She asked him; with sign language, she then translated his message. He’d signed his grandmother and grandfather. And the up and down of his hand were angels. She told me his story.
He had been in a car accident and was in a coma, and when he came out of it, Ryan said he had been to heaven. His mother told me when he saw a picture of grandparents, whom he never saw before, he knew who they were. He had met them in heaven. When his arm and hand were going up and down, he was trying to tell me about the angels; when his hand was going up quickly, then with his palm facing downward, he slowly lowered it, God was telling him he couldn’t stay. He had to go back.
As I stood listening to his mother, I looked at Ryan; all I could say was,” I believe him.” She said,” I do, too.” I told Ryan,” I am so glad you came back, so I could meet you.” His eyes smiled at me; his mother followed him to the back. And then he paused, looked back at me, then with two fingers, kissed them, and pointed them to me. I did the same. As they left the room, he held up his arm and signed, I love you. His mother called back, “he says he loves you.” (smile) “I love you, too.”
As I watched them, I prayed with all my heart for him and his family. I don’t know if I will ever meet him again, here; I hope so, but I know I will meet him in heaven. His joy and love were something his paralyzed body could not contain or dampen. The joy of the Lord is our strength. I know it is Ryan’s as well.
The takeaway: The joy of the Lord can be our strength when we trust Him.
Postscript
I never saw Ryan again. One night not too long ago, I heard on the local news of an accident where a drunk driver ran a stop sign, hit a van broadside so hard it threw a man in his wheelchair out of the vehicle, killing him instantly.
His family survived. I never knew Ryan’s last name, but I am sure it was he and his parents. I feel blessed to have known Ryan, even if it was just for an hour. He not only blessed my heart but his passing put a dent in it as well.
Ryan was special. He had a love and joy that could only come from the Lord.
