This is my future, people. Note: I was in no way involved with the creation of this comic. The proper website can be viewed by clicking on the link.
I did not make it. I live it.
http://poorlydrawnlines.com/comic/the-difference/
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
Transcendent Hope
Coach died today. He was a mentor to me, a mentor to almost every student in my school, from the kindergartners to the seniors.
"Uncle" Jay Tolar did something incredible. He had hope, which isn't easy in the face of a disease as crushing and terrifying as ALS. Sometimes, people exaggerate pleasant qualities after someone dies, but I doubt that any who knew Coach Tolar could ever suspect that of him.
From childhood, I remember him bouncing. Brimming with energy. Constantly laughing, and making others laugh.
You know something? Even when I "grew up" and coach grew older and ALS paralyzed his body, that's still how he seemed. The wheelchair didn't confine him, somehow. He confined IT. His energy and liveliness transcended it, and he still made everyone laugh -- sometimes using the paralysis to help him imitate a zombie, and sometimes singing hilarious songs while machines sucked the phlegm from his chest, since he could no longer cough. He had hope, and he laughed at the disease.
His faith gave him hope, and he gave this hope to others. Even in his death, his incredible family and those of us blessed by his life still have hope; hope that we will see him again, someday, and hope that his body is now strong and free, dancing with even more unquenchable energy before God's throne than he always displayed on this earth.
I thank God for Uncle Jay Tolar's life, and I thank him for a hope bigger than paralysis or disease or death. In the meantime, whenever I'm tempted to lose hope in any struggle of my life, I think I'll remember that Coach did not.
"Uncle" Jay Tolar did something incredible. He had hope, which isn't easy in the face of a disease as crushing and terrifying as ALS. Sometimes, people exaggerate pleasant qualities after someone dies, but I doubt that any who knew Coach Tolar could ever suspect that of him.
From childhood, I remember him bouncing. Brimming with energy. Constantly laughing, and making others laugh.
You know something? Even when I "grew up" and coach grew older and ALS paralyzed his body, that's still how he seemed. The wheelchair didn't confine him, somehow. He confined IT. His energy and liveliness transcended it, and he still made everyone laugh -- sometimes using the paralysis to help him imitate a zombie, and sometimes singing hilarious songs while machines sucked the phlegm from his chest, since he could no longer cough. He had hope, and he laughed at the disease.
His faith gave him hope, and he gave this hope to others. Even in his death, his incredible family and those of us blessed by his life still have hope; hope that we will see him again, someday, and hope that his body is now strong and free, dancing with even more unquenchable energy before God's throne than he always displayed on this earth.
I thank God for Uncle Jay Tolar's life, and I thank him for a hope bigger than paralysis or disease or death. In the meantime, whenever I'm tempted to lose hope in any struggle of my life, I think I'll remember that Coach did not.
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