One hears about such things, but to my knowledge, Mark Waddell is the only fellow of my personal acquaintance to jump from an airplane – experience the horror of not seeing his parachute open – plummet to earth … and survive. Albeit considerably worse for the wear.
I remember thinking, on first hearing the story, that it was just the kind of thing Mark would do.
He was a year ahead of me, as we came of age in our big-church youth group – athletic, handsome enough, a wag with a gift for the well-timed punchline. He went on to join the Navy SEALs, serving through 25 years of supremely dangerous duty in grueling hot spots all over the world.
He is a man who watched a lot of other men die – men he knew well, loved greatly, and trusted with his life. Some of them were killed on missions he assigned to them.
For those and other reasons, Mark brought home a critical case of post-traumatic stress disorder. In coming to terms with that torment, he and his wife, Marshele, became respected experts on PTSD, trying to spread understanding and encourage better treatment. It has been work as lasting and, in its way, heroic, as anything Mark fought and won on the battlefield.
But these are things that can darken a man’s soul. I hope they didn’t wholly darken his. There was always something happy-go-lucky about Mark ... an extra helping of joie de vivre. I’d like to think it’s still in there, dancing like it used to in his disarming, candid eyes.
That said, I really didn’t know him well. What I remember, mostly, is one evening in a small church classroom, where he and I happened to be among the dozen or so young people sitting in a tight circle, settling in for a Bible study lesson.
I was a sophomore in high school, stealing shy glances at the pretty girls in the group, most of whom were stealing glances at Mark. He was in rare, rollicking form that night, with wry observations and witty retorts to most anything his peers or the outnumbered teacher had to say.
But he’d met his match. Warm and unflappable, Mrs. Boliek waited out his one-liners, the smothered giggles and general teenage hubbub, until her calm finally drew everyone’s quiet, if restive, attention.
“I would like to go around the circle,” she began, “and have each of you finish this sentence: ‘I am …’” Mrs. Boliek looked expectantly to the girl on her left. “I am …” she repeated.
The answers eked out: “I am … a Christian.” “I am Tom and Julie’s daughter.” “I am a runner.” “I am – a boy!” The natives were wiggly and giggly as preschoolers, and no more inclined to focus. Besides, Mark’s turn had come, and we couldn’t wait to hear what our resident comedian would say.
“I am …” An expectant hush filled the room. All eyes fixed on his solemn face.
“… God’s gift to the world.”
Bullseye. The whole circle dissolved in giggles, snickers, guffaws. One boy rocked so far back in his chair, he nearly tipped over. He scrambled to get his balance back, and more laughter frolicked in the air.
Mrs. Boliek, I noticed, was not smiling. Her eyes peered, cool and steady, into Mark’s.
Mark’s were just as cool, staring back.
“I’m not kidding,” he murmured.
“I know you’re not,” she replied, just as quietly.
There are moments in life when we hear a word of truth and know it exactly for what it is. It sings home like an arrow into some deep sinew of our subconscious … there to hold fast and immovable for the rest of our lives. And from there, to affect our thinking, ever after.
I’ve no idea what became of kind, gimlet-eyed Mrs. Boliek. I wonder if, as years went by, she had occasions to recall that brief exchange.
I wonder, too, if Mark ever thought of it, deep in a starless night, swimming toward the black silhouette of some foreign shore, or crouched and waiting for the next bloodshed to begin. Or standing over the bodies of so many fellow soldiers.
But the words have never left me. Some quiet voice in my heart has echoed them so often, at unpredictable moments, as I’ve caught myself looking on souls that I cherish … at people I’ve had cause to despise … even past ones who’ve really meant nothing to me, one way or another.
It’s hard to look on each life and see a gift. God’s gift. Wrapped up like the snarling heads, cursing crowds, and wild-eyed victims on the evening news. Like baked, withered men, stubbornly gripping cardboard signs on windy street corners. Like women with jowly, empty faces, trudging behind their grocery carts. Like cool professionals, with pressed suits and pressed vocabularies, exchanging thin pleasantries over boardroom tables.
I don’t look for gifts in dens and alleys and cubicles. On playgrounds and stages. As I’m crossing church foyers and school ballfields. I don’t look for them – and so I don’t see them.
“God’s gift to the world.” A lot of days, it’s hard to see that, even in the mirror.
But Mark seemed to recognize a gift, one springtime Sunday evening, in a giggly classroom. Mrs. Boliek saw one, too. And on my best days – when my heart’s door is open wide and the wind is from the south – even I feel a little breeze of understanding.
“I am the least … but by the grace of God, I am what I am.” * And what I am is God’s gift to the world. Albeit somewhat worse for the wear.
With that recognition comes so much joy of life. Oh, that it might dance in my disarming, candid eyes.
* 1 Corinthians 15:9-10
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