Living My Purpose: Almost Dying with It Still Inside – Part 1

Hours later, I’m miserably relieved.

Marooned in this lonely room, scents of clean linen mix with air freshener and old carpet. “All hotels in this area are expensive,” Scott said an hour ago. “So, I’ll drop you off at La Quinta Inn. It’s closest to your car.”

Nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie, I notice housekeeping’s terrific job. But who looks in the fridge’s tiny freezer box? Nobody but me. I pull out a left-over partial bottle of whiskey.

No.

No distractions.

I want to remember today’s exhilarating and frightening events. Tonight, I will live in the present. And be thankful.

I visualize 8 years of precious family memories in this car. My children’s laughter echoes in her grey interior. The smell of family adventures and spilled soup emanates from well-worn cloth seats.

I smile with sadness.

“Thank God I’m alive. For some reason,” I breathe quietly. “Thanks for a second chance. Now what do I do?”

Hotels aren’t in this frugal trip’s plan. I don’t have to spend money to ski. Vail’s Epic Ski Pass is leftover from a November adventure with my son Nathan.

On today’s journey, I eat and sleep in my car. It saves money. And I have a magnificent natural living room.

This odyssey is the next step after last year’s blog-starting doubts. Back then, I grapple with: “Who am I to blog about relationships when I mess them up?”

Back then, I search for my purpose at the point where my passion intersects the world’s need. I become convinced I’m to write inspiring relationship stories on RelationshipsAreAllWeGot.com.

So now a year later, I’m in Colorado figuring out how to begin this blog. To do it well requires lots of work. How do I arrange my life to launch it?

In the previous two days before the accident, the answer to this question becomes clear. Surprisingly, it comes through discovering how to ski correctly.

My ski technique hurts.

I learn to ski 17 years ago in New Hampshire. Incorrectly. I will be clueless for years.

Spectacular mountain drives to Cannon and Brenton Woods ski areas fill me with wonder. Mountains do this to me.

I learn on discounted Head skis in the days of long skinny 210 cm (83”) skis. As dad of a young family, I skip lesson expenses. I teach myself on New England’s icy snow.

Six years later, my children (8 and 10) learn in Mankato, Minnesota. We endure 3 weekly ski lessons in awful conditions. Icy rain. Below zero temps. Snowstorm forcing us into a hotel.

For Nathan and Rachel, every ski trip since is superb. No matter the conditions. Well, except for a small broken arm one year.

My children and I bond on these weekend trips. On at least one journey, I hear, “Dad, I spilled a little bit of Ramen noodles.”

“I don’t think Sally minds. She’s a good car. But can you keep it over the towel? She prefers gasoline for supper.”

“Hey dad, remember that steep run you didn’t want to go down? It feels like flying.”

“You can have that one, Nathan. I’m proud of you both. Your skiing and self-confidence are improving. Please pass a chocolate chip cookie.”

Rachel excitedly says, “I can’t wait for our sixth-grade ski trip. I’ll smile so big skiing by the class bullies falling down in the snow.”

As for me? I improve very little. I’m energetic and love to go for it. But I have to hang back.

My legs are quickly sore. I often stop and sit in snowbanks for brief rests. When turning, I’m careful not to catch a ski in the snow and throw myself rolling down the hill.

Now, a decade later, I’m in Colorado figuring out my life. And trying to improve beyond an average intermediate skier.

I vacillate between teeth-gritting determination and head-shaking exasperation.

Three days before the car accident, I find a Colorado cliff.

By accident.

The adventurer living in me heads down a new path at Keystone Ski Area. Dercum mountain’s backside has an easy undulating traverse.

On the right, runs named Lower Windows snake threateningly through the trees. They are really steep for an intermediate skier.

I glide along this leisurely trail until it ends …

at the cliff edge!

I didn’t pay much attention to the last passing sign. Now it screams in my memory.

“Snake Pit!”

Looking down, I stare at a way-to-steep black-diamond run. Moguls stretch out below like sinister roller coasters, each ready to launch me into the air.

Shocked, I stand with open mouth and pumping adrenaline.

“God, this isn’t where I want to be!” I quietly scream across the valley. “What do I do now?”

Immediately, a full-body “whoosh” of sudden realization crashes over me. This is more than a skiing dilemma prayer.

These words sum up my current life.

I think about Nathan, Rachel and my wife Janet. Unforeseen family struggles and stress are pulling us apart. I miss them back in Iowa.

I also think about the unexpected end of my employment. Currently, I’m between jobs, wondering how this blog fits into my next steps.

Shaking my head into the present, I see the cliff’s edge before me. It stands as a giant metaphore to be solved.

Again, I tell and ask God words prayed often in my life.

“God, this isn’t where I want to be. What do I do now?”

Like life lately, there’s no easy route down from here. Also, like life, hanging back won’t work.

I have no choice but to go forward. Determined, I inch my skis at a side-angle over the edge.

The Christian song “Oceans” is unintentionally stuck on repeat in my earphones. It urges me to risk stepping into the unknown. Plus trust God and myself.

Cris-crossing the slope a few feet at a time, I stop more than ski. Sitting at the run’s edges, I often patiently lift each leg to turn my skis the opposite direction. 

“I will trust in you,” encourages the melody in my ear. Strong piano chords energize the keyboard-player in me.

An occasional skier passes, descending this mountain incline in 5 or 10 minutes. One woman stops, asking, “You doing OK?”

“Yes, resting a moment. I accidentally got onto this run. It’s way over my pay grade.”

“Good luck,” she encourages. “And be safe.”

“I’m working on ‘safe.’ It’s taking forever, but I’m not giving up,” I assure her. And myself.

But I’m thinking, “I need more than luck to survive this mountain.”

A while later, I climb out of a snowy 3 foot (1m) deep tree well. It’s my 38th purposeful fall.

I smile at the irony of the song in my ear.

“If this isn’t risking. If this isn’t stepping into the unknown. Then nothing is.”

These repeating lyrics still encourage me to trust 1 1/2 hours later. Overcome with relief and triumph, I ski away from this epic struggle. 

Holding my black ski poles high and wide in the air, I hear applause for my victory. The crowd is massive. In my mind.

Stopping to look back, I marvel at magnificent white and green patches contrasting a blue sky. Gorgeous and uncompromising.

Overcome with self-confidence, I tell this ominous mountain, “I survived you! And I’m gonna learn to ski if it kills me….

“Before it kills me!”

The next day (2 days before the accident), I’m determined.

I try various techniques on Vail Ski Area’s easy green runs. Then I go for it on intermediate blue runs. The snow-filled air matches my cloudy frustration. 

By day’s end, I remain the same intermediate skier. But with added painfully sore muscles. As the last skier on Vail’s sprawling mountains, ski patrol urges me down. It’s getting dark and I have to get to my warm car. 

But on a whim, I ask for help. “Will you please watch me ski and give me advice? I’m an intermediate skier and not getting better.”

I have no idea how risking this simple plea for help will change my skiing.

And my life.

Ski patrol could urge me off the mountain immediately. But I’m forever grateful for this man’s momentary compassion. 

“Sure,” he says, “just a couple minutes.”

After skiing a bit, I inquire with hope, “What can I do better?” 

“You take your turns too wide. Your butt sticks back too far. You lean too far inside on turns. And… ” 

I can’t remember the other piece of advice. It’s jarred from my memory in the accident 48 hours later. 

This same evening, I sit in my dependable car, using McDonald’s WiFi. This is my first ski lesson ever.

The four items my ski patrol friend advises all point to the most basic ski technique I never knew. 

I’m supposed to lean forward! I’m supposed to press my shin to the front of my boots! I’m supposed to direct my weight into the downhill foot!

After skiing 17 years, who knew? This is counter-intuitive for an avid backpacker.

Leaning downhill makes no sense!

Or does it?

The next day is like learning to walk after a broken leg. I feel as crazy as skiers on Vail’s easy green runs must think I am.

“Lean forward, Tim. Lean forward, Tim,” they hear me coach myself. “Tim, lean forward!”

Thank God for helmets. I always wear my blue/black one.

In the early 90s, I was chaplain Emory Rehabilitation Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. Listening to families of brain injury patients convinces me to use seat belts and helmets.

I fall a dozen times this bright gorgeous mountain morning. 

Changing old habits is hard. When going too fast, I panic and revert to back-leaning patterns. My ski tips lift, reducing steering and control.

After a few hours, I get the hang of skiing leaning forward. Barely. Picking up a little speed, I practice my turns.

Suddenly, I’m flying through the air! Gravity soon takes over.

One ski is off after side-catching the snow. The other ejects in the tumble. Instinctively, I throw myself forward, going with the roll. 

Tumbling head over heals, rolling front to back to front, I slow into a long back-slide. 

“Hey, you OK dude?” a skier inquires. He stops to hand me a lost ski from 30 feet (10m) uphill. 

Body check: Head, OK. Neck, OK. Shoulders … arms … chest … legs, OK.

“Yes, I’m good. Thanks a lot.”

“That was a terrible roll. You sure you’re OK?”

“I roll on purpose. Stopping a fall usually breaks something. Thank you, though.”

Quietly, I pray, “Thank God for breaking my arm!” 

I remember back many years to 5th grade.

Short, skinny plastic skateboards are all the rage in the mid-70’s. Friends in my small north Iowa town all have them.

My life changes one day on the way home from Lake Mills Elementary School.

The yellow board stops to converse with a green clump of grass growing in an old sidewalk. My body propels forward without hesitation.

I’m flying! Then gravity wins.

“Your arm is broken,” the doctor says.

“But summer is just beginning and I have to go swimming,” I object.

“Sorry. You’ll have your cast for 6 weeks. I advise no skateboarding this summer to save the other arm.”

Riding home in our brown station wagon, I’m devastated. My summer plans are ruined. Munching a snack only slightly helps.

“Thanks for the chocolate chip cookie, mom. I’m mad. Now I have to watch through the fence while my friends swim.”

“That’s sad, Tim. You love swimming. Yet you are creative. I know you’ll find something to do.”

Immediately, her words spark an idea. With 12-year-old determination, I report, “When my arm’s better, I’ll skateboard again. And I’m gonna learn to fall safely if it kills me…

“Before it kills me!”

Mom quietly bites her lip. She keeps me from knowing the deep down pot of worry my words turn up to boil.

Months later, I’m on my skateboard descending the steep sidewalk by our home. Intentionally turning right into the grass, my skateboard halts.

I tuck and roll down the long embankment. Head over heals, rolling front to back to front. I learn to crash safely. I have no idea how many times this will save me over the years.

My mind is trained for life: “In case of accident: go for the roll, don’t stop the fall.”

Forty years later, I sit in Colorado after rolling across the snow. Wow! I’ve rolled to safety so many times as an adult. Did God work that out for me in 5th grade?

Thank God for a broken arm! 

Resting from my ski-tumble, I think back to my later teen years.

The need to learn accident-avoidance influences my early driving. On snowy abandoned streets, I slide corners and skid stops learning vehicle control. Most importantly, I learn to turn into a skid and quickly correct.

Five years after this, my accident training saves my first wife and I.

We become engaged on a spring break Colorado trip. Then we drive south of Rocky Mountain National Park on Highway 9.

Unexpected ice sends my white manual Ford Granada, fishtailing and spinning completely around.

Turning into the spin and quickly recovering eventually lands us on the shoulder’s edge. We sit shaken before gorgeous mountain views overlooking the steep valley below.

Kathy and I are thankful to be alive.

Three decades later, I will use this winter anti-crash training. It will be on another Colorado mountain road. Just below A-Basin Ski Area, my life is saved so I can live my purpose and start this blog.

But that’s another story. (Part 2)

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