The Gift of Fire (7 page)
I was seven years old in the fall of 1986, and that’s when my parents heard rumors circulating around their church about miraculous cures happening in Europe. Parishioners in the congregation were talking about the wonders that were supposedly occurring in a remote village in what was then Yugoslavia (now Bosnia and Herzegovina) called Medjugorje. Supernatural visitations by the Virgin Mary were said to have begun in 1981, just two years after I was born. Over the course of the next five years, the little town had been transformed from an obscure Balkan backwater to a world-famous apparition site and pilgrimage destination.
The claim was that Mary had selected a small group of children in Medjugorje to appear before and share her messages from heaven, as she’d reportedly done on many occasions with other children around the world since the death of her son, Jesus Christ. Mary repeatedly appeared as a vision to these Yugoslavian boys and girls, speaking only to them even though there were often others, including grown-ups, present. The children entered a trancelike state during these visitations, and only shared the messages with the rest of the village when the apparitions were finished.
When word of the visitations started to spread, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims began trekking to Medjugorje in the hopes of seeing the mother of Jesus and witnessing for themselves the great miracles that were occurring there.
For my parents—both devout Catholics who prayed regularly to the Virgin Mary—the apparitions seemed to be an answer to their prayers. People at church told them that several miracles had been seen in Medjugorje, such as the sun spinning in the sky above the tiny village. But there had also been reports that many pilgrims there had been cured of grave illnesses, ailments, and all manner of diseases and injuries.
Mom and Dad believed with all their hearts that if there was any chance, even the very remotest possibility, that making a pilgrimage to Medjugorje would miraculously heal me and make me whole again, then they had to act upon it at once. They decided that no matter what it took, they were going to get me to Yugoslavia.
My father is a loyal and caring family man who always worked to be the best possible provider he could be and ensure that his loved ones never wanted for anything. He really wanted to make the pilgrimage to Medjugorje, but he was busy with his insurance company. Therefore, my parents agreed that Dad would stay home with my brothers and hold down the fort, and Mom would take me to Yugoslavia. Before long, we were off, traveling with a group of other Catholics who were on the same pilgrimage.
I was only seven years old, and I found my first trip out of the country to be both fascinating and frightening. Just traveling with my mother was a memorable experience in itself because we’d never really gone anywhere alone together, unless it was to a hospital for yet another surgery. But now we were making our way to an exotic country I’d never even heard of, and a place where the mother of Jesus was supposed to be visiting to boot! What an adventure, like setting off on a journey to a magical place from a storybook!
The reality was quite a bit different.
T
HE
Y
UGOSLAVIAN COUNTRYSIDE
was like an alien landscape to me, and just about as far away from our suburban American lifestyle as I could possibly imagine. To say that I was shocked as we arrived in the village would be an understatement. I was hungry when we got to Medjugorje; since I’d never been out of the country, I imagined that we’d find a McDonald’s drive-through somewhere. Instead, we found cows and goats wandering through the middle of the street, along with chickens and roosters living in people’s homes.
Mom and I stayed with a wonderfully warm and friendly family for our ten-day visit. However, they spoke very little English and were so poor that they didn’t have electricity. It was winter by then, and my mother and I had to sleep fully clothed so we wouldn’t freeze. In the evening, she and I sat around the family’s fire to keep warm, and we all figured out a sort of sign language so we could communicate with each other. The family was very kind—and even if I wasn’t accustomed to the living conditions or the local cuisine of lamb and peppers and salty cheeses, we had some laughs and shared some bonding meals together.
Every morning, Mom and I would hike up the mountain to the area where the young visionaries received their apparitions of Mary. Along the way, we’d see hundreds of people camping in tents outside in the freezing cold and whipping wind. When the afternoon arrived, the visionaries gathered in a little room at the home of a local priest and received their “visit.” Each day, a different handful of people was invited into the special chamber to observe, and pray with, the visionaries while everyone else stood outside. My mother and I were among those invited on two separate occasions, and we watched the children with their upturned faces and shining eyes pray and talk to the Holy Mother. While neither Mom nor I saw or heard Mary or witnessed any of the so-called miracles—healing or otherwise—being there was still a very spiritual and profound experience.
When my mom and I returned to Louisiana, my body was exactly as it had been when we left. I hadn’t undergone a miraculous healing or been supernaturally cured, but my parents were still certain that a change might come. So within the year, I was again on a jet flying over the Atlantic on my second visit to Medjugorje.
This time I traveled with my father, who was convinced that the second visit would be the charm. Dad and I prayed every day, but again, we didn’t experience any miracles. We even went to a health spa in another remote Yugoslav village, where my father had been told that a wonder cream was being produced that doctors and hospitals throughout the region applied on burn victims with miraculous results. Allegedly, the cream had powerful curative properties when used regularly— the scars of even the most severely burned were said to magically disappear, leaving the victim’s skin healthy, smooth, and whole.
My dad and I returned to the U.S. with six or seven big jars of the gooey ointment, which my parents faithfully applied to my body each day … that is, until my skin broke out in a rash and developed an infection. The “wonder” cream quickly ended up in the garbage.
Once again, a family member and I had come back from our Yugoslavian pilgrimage with no visible sign of a miracle. Yet although my skin was still scarred, my face was a mess, and my fingers hadn’t grown back, that didn’t mean my family hadn’t been blessed. How could these trips
not
have been a blessing? After all, we allowed ourselves to be motivated by faith, love, and hope.
I also believe that traveling to Medjugorje had done two very important things: it strengthened the bond between my parents and myself, and it made me think long and hard about what it really meant to experience a miracle.
What I concluded (and again, much of my reasoning was on a subconscious level) was that if a miracle was going to happen to me,
I
was the one who was going to make it happen. It would still require a great act of faith, but the faith I’d need to have would be in myself—that is, in my own abilities to succeed in whatever I attempted, despite the physical obstacles I faced.
I
N THE MONTHS FOLLOWI NG MY RETURN
from Medjugorje, I doubled my efforts in all aspects of my life. I tried harder at school, I tried harder at sports, and I tried harder to master the biggest challenge of my young life—tying my shoelaces. Sure enough, I discovered something about myself that I still rely on to this day: by trying harder, putting in an extra effort, practicing, and giving my all to something, I make my own miracles happen. And as strange as it might sound, one of the first places I noticed my ability to make miracles happen was on the basketball court.
My parents encouraged me to play sports—with the exception of football. That’s because my bones remained so brittle after the fire that one solid hit from an averagesize linebacker more than likely would have shattered my arms, legs, and back. Fortunately, the parks and community centers in our area had all sorts of organized sports, and I became pretty skilled at many of them through the years. I was good at soccer and accomplished at baseball, but I excelled at basketball.
Dribbling or passing a basketball wasn’t easy without hands, but I did pretty well by developing my own technique. More than anything, the key to playing well was practicing, and pushing myself to become as good as my body would allow. I competed with myself, and eventually that led me to become a very competitive child in everything from sports to academics. And of all the things I loved competing in, basketball was number one. Baseball was a close second, but B-ball was my passion— I lived for the game, and I got better and better as the years went by.
When I first started in organized sports, the kids chosen to be team captains would pick me last to be on their team. It hurt my feelings, but I got used to it. If I put myself in their shoes, I guess I could understand their reasoning—who wanted someone with no hands at the plate when the bases were loaded? But when it came to basketball, I joined community leagues where the captains and coaches had to play every kid who tried out for the team.
When I’d get on the court and start to compete, it never failed to delight me when I saw the shocked looks on everyone’s faces. Suddenly, they were all watching the kid with no fingers dribbling down the court with amazing speed, weaving through the defense, making incredible passes, or leaping and twisting through the air to make a basket on his own. Ha!
Smashing other people’s preconceptions and prejudices was half the fun of playing. I mean, I’d been dealing with that kind of limited thinking my entire childhood. I loved proving to people that just because someone looked different, it didn’t mean that he or she wasn’t every bit as good a person, a student, or an athlete. I’d already made that “miracle” breakthrough in my mind and stopped seeing myself as limited, and now I started taking every opportunity to expand the narrow thinking of others. Back then the basketball court was not only a perfect place for me to prove myself, it was also a heck of a lot of fun.
By the time I was ten years old, I was playing point guard on our team in the local league. (Point guard, if you don’t know, is a very important position—think Steve Nash or Magic Johnson.) I was very fast and had become pretty darn good on defense. It seemed that I could always find the open guy on the floor and get the ball to him with no problem.
We played a regional tournament game in which we were up against the best team in the league. Because I was point guard, I felt a tremendous sense of pride that I was leading my team in that particular match. But the point guard on the other team was a star player, one of the very best in his age group in southeastern Louisiana. I think because he saw that I had no hands, he felt like he could just dance around me, which he did for a while. By the end of the first quarter, the score was very one-sided—my team and I were being whooped badly, trailing by almost 20 points.
Our coach was trying to get us pumped up by telling us a motivational story about his team coming from behind to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat during his own days of playing basketball. He revved us all up and got us very excited; when we hit the court for the second quarter, I was determined to be part of the big comeback for our team. As soon as the quarter started, the opposition began pushing us hard. I was face-to-face with the point guard from the other team and stuck to him like glue. This time he didn’t have a chance to show off his quickness and fancy ballhandling as he had in the first quarter. All he could do was dump the ball, which is exactly what we wanted him to do.
I played with an intensity I hadn’t experienced since tackling my friend Kieran in kindergarten, and by halftime our teams were tied on the scoreboard. Later, during a pivotal moment in the game, the opposing team’s point guard and I got into a bit of a scuffle. As we scrambled on the floor, we both went tumbling down in front of the crowd. We were taken out of the game to cool down, but now that the other point guard was off the floor, my team surged ahead! By the fourth quarter, we’d closed the gap, and the game could have gone either way.
We ended up losing by only two points, but I’d earned the respect of my fellow players. I’d showed my mettle in front of the crowd, and I’d also shown my teammates that I was indeed a valuable player. I’d stood my ground and hustled as best I could—even if it did get me tossed from the game! It was one of those moments I’ll always look back upon with a certain level of pride, because I truly realized that no matter how I looked, I was going the distance.
A
FEW DAYS AFTER THAT TOURNAMENT GAME
, I got a phone call from
The Times-Picayune
newspaper, asking if they could do a feature on me. They’d heard about my efforts and decided that my story would make a good article.
A day or two later, a reporter interviewed me and my family at home and also went on to talk to my teachers and coaches. It was an amazing thing for a child who’d only recently stopped thinking that he was forever going to be mocked or shunned. I felt excited about the opportunity to tell my story and to talk about my family and my love for basketball.
After it appeared, the article opened up even more opportunities. Before long, I was asked to be the “King” of the children’s Easter parade. As I sat on the throne they’d built atop the lead float, wearing a white tuxedo and crown, I waved at the throng of people who were crowding the sidewalks and waving back. I remember thinking that just a few years before I’d felt so lost, so alone, and so ignored. But now I could hear the cheers from the crowd all around me, the positive affirmations being given to me by complete strangers.
Naturally, my family was standing along the route as well, and I felt so much pride at having them there, knowing they’d been a driving force in my life. I was now where I was because my mother and father had stuck by me through thick and thin. They’d taught me to never give up, and it’s a lesson I’d learned well.
