My wife Andrea and I live less than a mile from John Brown University. Wednesday, April 3, 2024, began with temperatures below 40 degrees. But spring was arriving, and afternoon temps would rise to nearly 60. So, I chose to ride my motorcycle to work for the first time in a while, looking forward to a nice ride home.
The day was a typical one in the Global Engagement Office, where I am the director of the Walton International Scholarship Program: meetings, preparation for a three-university WISP meeting and reviewing visa documents. I walked to my motorcycle at the end of the day, realized I didn’t have my helmet and went back to get it. That decision saved my life. It’s the last thing I would remember for the next two weeks.
When I ride my motorcycle home, I routinely take a right onto Central Street at the end of Oak Hill Cemetery and head west. As Central turns into State Line Road, it dips down and makes a hard turn to the left. I often enjoyed leaning into the turn.
It was on that scenic stretch that I was hit by a car. From the damage to the motorcycle, I believe the car was in my lane, and as I tried to avoid it, I laid the bike down.
My insurance app registered the abrupt stop of my phone and texted to ask if I was okay. I was not. The hit-and-run accident broke two ribs and my shoulder blade, left road rash on my face and caused a traumatic brain injury, coming from two bleeds on the front and left side of my brain.
A woman driving home found me lying face down in the middle of the street in front of my motorcycle. She couldn’t find my pulse but saw that I was breathing. She called 911, blocked the road with her car and waited with me until the police and ambulance arrived. While the paramedics treated and transported me to Washington Regional Medical Center in Fayetteville, my wife began to wonder why I wasn’t home yet. After calling and texting me several times with no response, Andrea drove to campus via Holly Street. When she didn’t see the motorcycle where I usually park, she began to worry. Andrea returned home and was about to call my boss when she saw two policemen approaching our front door.
About four hours after the accident, I was prepped for brain surgery to stop the bleeding and reduce pressure on my brain. The neurosurgeon told my family I had a 50% chance of surviving the surgery. If I survived, Andrea asked the surgeon, “Would I recover?” He said each patient and each case is different, and there is no way to know the lasting effects of the TBI. During the surgery, the doctors removed a large piece of my skull. It would be three months before my brain had healed sufficiently to safely replace it.
Following surgery, I was on a ventilator and unresponsive for several days, altogether spending a week in the ICU. During this time, the medical staff monitored my responsiveness and tried to get simple pain responses from me. The day after the accident, some JBU faculty and staff and most of the Walton students gathered in Walker Residence Hall to pray for my healing and recovery. Three days after surgery, by the grace of God, I opened my eyes, disoriented and minimally responsive to commands. My brain was on the mend. On day six, I was taken off the ventilator and was speaking to Andrea and others in the ICU room.
I spent two weeks at Washington Regional. Many family, friends, coworkers and students visited. The nurses continued to try to orient me and evaluate my progress, while visitors helped by attempting to engage me in conversation. One friend had me conjugating verbs in Spanish. I said some crazy (and now, hilarious) things. When asked if I remembered the name of my son Jude’s girlfriend, I replied, “Yes I do, her name is Melkor.” I believe my now daughter-in-law, MacKenzie, has forgiven me for referring to her as Tolkien’s god of evil and darkness.
I was making consistent improvements, and the surgeon was encouraged by my progress. Still, it was evident that I needed inpatient rehab care for longer than the hospital could provide. I was transferred to Baptist Health Medical Center in Little Rock. In their TBI rehab unit, I had intensive daily physical, occupational and speech therapy. Physical therapy helped me regain strength and balance. Occupational therapy helped me regain the ability to do things for myself. Speech therapy helped me improve my cognitive skills, problem-solving abilities and word-finding skills, as I had difficulty with language processing.
I accepted being in the hospital and needing therapy, but I remember being suspicious of nurses and therapists. Andrea would gently reason me out of my anxiety. One of my speech therapists summed up what had happened to my brain with a helpful metaphor. Tonya said that my brain was like a file cabinet that had been shaken and spilled out. I needed to work on collecting the contents, organizing them and putting them back in the correct folders.
It was at Baptist Health Rehabilitation Institute that I had my first memories. I remembered that the Walton banquet was coming up. My son and son-in-law attended, allowing me to watch virtually and talk to many students. I remember pieces of those conversations, although I didn’t know why Andrea and I weren’t there or where we were instead.
After two weeks, I moved to NeuroRestorative Timber Ridge in Benton, Arkansas, for therapy in a less hospital-like environment. While there, I realized I couldn’t feel God’s presence and jokingly told Andrea I thought the car that hit me had knocked the Holy Spirit out of me. This too would pass and was likely the start of me processing and wrestling with feelings and emotions. I spent two and a half weeks at Timber Ridge and went home a mere six and a half weeks after my accident.
Throughout the summer, I continued to receive outpatient therapies at UAMS in Fayetteville. Because I was missing a part of my skull, I wore a helmet to protect my brain anytime I was standing up. One day in June, Andrea and I were on a mission to complete a power of attorney so she could talk to doctors and insurance on my behalf. We needed a notary, so we headed to Siloam Springs City Hall. As soon as we walked in, a woman passing through the lobby said she was a notary and could help us. When she took a good look at me, her mouth fell open, and she started to cry. Andrea and I were puzzled by her reaction. I did look odd with my helmet on but didn’t typically inspire tears. Then it came to us.
“You are the woman who found me in the road, aren’t you?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a miracle to see you standing here talking to me!”
She was able to tell us much of what happened. God sent her so soon after the accident to call for help, and as she waited with me, she spoke to me and prayed that I would be okay. I see her presence as evidence of God’s mercy and care, just as I do the fact that one of the paramedics on the scene is a member of our church. I could have lain there much longer on that out-of-the-way road before being found, but God had another plan for me.
In July, the neurosurgeon replaced the piece of my skull that had been removed. A month later, I was approved for a gradual return to work. In August, I started working a couple of hours a day and gradually added an hour every two weeks until I was back to full-time work. During my medical leave, Andrea and I were encouraged by the support we received from JBU staff and faculty in the form of home visits, meals and prayers. As I returned to work on a limited basis, it was thanks to the kindness and support of many at JBU that I was able to come and reengage with students.
During my recovery, I learned a lot about TBIs. From therapy and rehab with other TBI survivors, I knew that recovery and returning to work were not a given. I met a number of men who suffered similar injuries who were permanently disabled. I often wonder, “Why did I recover when others did not?”
Since my return, people who were praying for me have approached me with hugs and statements that they wanted to touch “a walking miracle.” During these humbling encounters, I stress the goodness and kindness of God and my gratefulness.
Why do some prayers get answered in miraculous ways, and others seemingly never elicit a response from the Lord, or at least, the hoped for one? I believe that answered prayer is evidence of God’s love for us and a method for His glory to be known. Several Walton students have shared that having prayed for me and witnessed my recovery has drawn them closer to God.
A book I read during my recovery that helped deal with my anxiety, fear and doubts about why this had happened, was “On Getting Out of Bed,” by Alan Noble. He argues that if we are suffering and it is hard to even get out of bed, the simple act of getting up is a witness to God’s goodness, mercy and love for us. Getting out of bed when you are smothered by pain, grief, anxiety or doubt is a witness to God’s presence.
Further, Noble writes, “Your suffering does not make you special. It does not make your life more interesting, significant, compelling or heroic. It doesn’t make for a better story. It doesn’t even make you worthy of love or compassion. What makes you worthy of love and compassion is the objective reality that God created you in his image and is preserving you right now.”
I agree with Noble. My suffering and subsequent recovery do not make me special. What’s special is the God who is preserving you and me every day, and who is calling us his beloved. If you, like me, have some seemingly unanswered prayers, I encourage you to use them as an impetus to draw near to him repeatedly. He is good, he is merciful and he is kind. To him be the glory forever and ever.