Crossing Jordan

I couldn’t take my eyes off of Bodexpress. As soon as the race began, I called downstairs for Loretta because she needed to come watch this with me. “Hurry! There’s a horse running without a jockey at the Preakness,” I said with elevating octaves of joy. The jockey had fallen off the horse (unharmed) and I literally stood in my living room with a lump in my throat as I clapped with sincere hope. Such a sweet moment. Tears were inevitable.

While War of Will won the Preakness, Bodexpress won my heart and the hearts of millions. I fell back into my chair as exhausted as I was exhilarated. Deep sigh of happiness. It had been a long time since I’d watched a scene so awesome. He just wanted to run with his friends. He was like, “Hey guys, wait for me!” In fact, I remember noticing him being jumpy and jittery at the gate. He was trapped for a minute. But then...freedom.

The next day, out of the blue, Gina Spivey, at that time, Pastor of the special needs ministry at our church, sent me a picture of my boy Jordan. He was—wait for it—standing next to a horse. Yep. The timing was surreal. Not sure of the context of the pic; not sure if he rode the horse that day (he’s been riding horses since he was 3) or if Jordan was merely there to walk him and care for him. I love him so much. In some ways, Jordan is trapped inside. Autism saddles his mind and reins his thoughts. He’s got the sweetest heart of any boy you’ve ever met.

Jordan and his first horse. Fast pals. Jordan’s mom says she thinks the horse understood Jordan. They talked and talked.

And every so often, it’ll happen. Jordan will look me square in the eye, and he’ll say something or respond to something with absolute coherence and lucidity. As if waking up from a dream, he’ll look at me inquisitively, almost as if he’s wondering how long I’d been sitting there. I can’t explain it, but he locks on to the topic. And when he does, I can’t take my eyes off of him. I delicately respond with a follow-up and try to keep him on track before we change universes. But for just a split second, we have a typical conversation. As if for the briefest of moments, he’s free.

Sometimes moments of purity invite themselves into our world without notice, permission, or apology. Those moments don’t always last.

Speaking of, Bodexpress decided to run around the track one more time after the race, just for the fun of it. The handlers eventually caught up with him and escorted him back to his stall, but one more time around the track was just too irresistible.

(Nine years earlier)

“You like mustard?”

“Yes. I like mustard,” I replied.

Optimistic but being thorough, Jordan leaned his little head to the side. “What color is mustard?”

“Yellow. Mustard is yellow,” I said with certainty.

Pause.

“Whaaaat’s yellow?” (As if he was giving me sort of a final exam; maybe to see if I was—and would always be—paying attention.)

“Mustard,” I testified (and with an assurance that I always would be listening).

Then he reached for my hand. I like to think that meant he thought I was alright. Then we walked to put his lunch pail away and that was that. That was the day I met Jordan. We’ve been best pals ever since. When we first started hanging out, he’d refer to me as the little guy that helps him. My life’s greatest title.

Don’t tell anyone, but Jordan and I used to take the toys out of the toy room, slam the outside gate, and sometimes we threw things over the fence. And every now and again, when he was smiling, jumping, and giggling to himself, I imagined that he’d just heard something that only he and God could hear, and I got to watch him run.

You know, after countless Buddy Breaks and Respite opportunities, a thousand fish tacos in Malibu, and more post-church French toast than my 53-year-old body is allowed, I have no doubt I’m closer to Jesus when I’m with Jordan. Not because of anything in me, but because if anything in life is pure and good and right and excellent, it’s found in the hearts and minds of kids with special needs. It’s like I’m closer to Heaven itself. Jordan and his friends take me higher. Without trying, they teach me what it means to be kind, forgiving, fun, and innocent. And when I come down again, I’m different. Sweeter. Gentler. And in some ways, tougher.

***

Big Bear, California. The small town 100 miles east of Los Angeles is hallowed training ground. Resting 9,000 feet above sea level and surrounded by the San Bernardino National Forest, Big Bear Lake is seven miles long and about a half-mile wide. With more than 300 days of sunshine each year, the haven is above the pollution, above the clouds, above the noise. And for many a boxer, the rare air is fertile terrain for the most rigorous and guided of training schemes.

Years ago I spent time training in an altitude chamber. As you may know, training at altitude helps you perform better at sea level. The more time you spend up high, the better you perform down low. As an old exercise physiologist, that makes good sense to me, but the way Jordan and his friends impact my heart makes it true. Spend time on high and you will perform better on the ground.

I think that’s why, after I leave his presence or I say goodbye to all of the kids after a day of respite, the places we go and the crowds we encounter later in the day get the best version of me. I’m more patient in line at the supermarket or more forgiving on the road. I smile more and demonstrate more compassion at the mall or in restaurants. Why? Because joy doesn’t wear off that fast. You don’t get over it quickly. It takes time for my natural inclinations to return. I don’t know. I just fight a better fight when I’m full of the good stuff of life. The kind of traits or fruits of the Spirit that God wants me to demonstrate are the ones I’m taught by those impacted by disabilities. That’s not an exaggeration.

Aaron Cohen once wrote, Boxers are products of place; inevitably where they come from is how they end up in the ring, and how they fight once they get there. Genius. And true. Not just for boxers. And not just for washed-up writers. There’s not a person on Earth tougher than a parent of a child impacted by special needs. There’s more heart and nerve and life and torment and joy and heartache and love in one breath of a mother caring for her disabled child than those that come from a thousand rounds inside the ring.

As I was writing the manuscript of my latest book, Jordan’s mom, Mendy, delivered a body blow—one that buckled both me and Loretta.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she texted to Loretta after weeks of dread. “I can’t bring myself to tell Jimmy, but we are moving away to be closer to family and better schools for Jordan.”

When we met up in person a couple days later to talk about it, I remember her explaining, “Tennessee isn’t that far. We know so many people there, and don’t worry, we will Facetime and visit often, and we will see each other on holidays and special occas...” As if her voice was fading into the background, all I could picture was Jordan leaving.

My buddy for nearly a decade was about to pack up and drive out of town. Now, that may not seem like a ton of bricks to you, but I assure you the news was too heavy for these narrow shoulders. Loretta and I held each other tight that night and just cried at the news.

What would we do without him? Because Jordan brings so much meaning to our world, it took a while to accept and process this news. In fact, I think we are still doing those things. That’s not hyperbole. His presence in our lives helps balance the stresses of work and personal health battles and chronic pain. He motivates me at work, and he unknowingly helps me manage the unusual stresses of my life in hospitality.

He’s someone we just love to hang with, and someone we simply need in our day-to-day lives. But let me try to put something into words. When we are with the kids who are affected by disabilities, we’re of course there to have a blast and make sure they are safe, but one of our primary purposes is to allow the parents and caregivers a much-needed rest—what we call respite. You’ve heard me discuss how important that is, but Loretta and I will tell you that we are the beneficiaries. We’re the ones being blessed. We’re the ones resting.

When I’m with Jordan and his friends for a time of respite care, I’m the one getting the rest. It’s like I’ve been outside all day long and it’s my turn at the water fountain. Refreshment of my soul. And when it’s over and the parents have collected their kiddos, we’re exhausted and completely and utterly filled. We can’t take any more goodness.

Imagine driving your car non-stop across the country. No sleep, few bathroom stops, fast food, laughter, tears, amazing stories, and a million different topics of discussion—but eventually you arrive at your destination. Your car is overheated and needs a serious wash, new tires, an oil change, and has a few thousand more miles on it. But when you look at your tank, it reads full. That’s what it’s like after respite.

You would love Jordan. He’s never met a stranger. Says hello to all the ladies. Even the girls he’s already spoken to earlier in the day, he makes sure they know he’s around. And Jordan absorbs his surroundings and the feelings his friends are experiencing.

One day, Jordan and I were playing board games when one of his buddies, Johnny, began to have a bit of a tough time. Johnny is non- verbal and highly emotional at times. At the time, the special abilities area was in the midst of a facelift and we had to retreat into unfamiliar areas of the church. The change was a little more than Johnny could bear. So he broke down. And when he cried, Jordan noticed and began to do what Jordan does: he looked on the bright side. “Johnny’s just having a tough time. He’s sad that we’re in this room. Johnny will be okay.” All of which I agreed with.

But as we continued to play our game, I noticed that Jordan was continuously looking back at Johnny. At this point, Johnny was going in and out of his own pain. Minutes of dry eyes were followed by minutes of tears. This went on for some time. And Jordan, who typically keeps a stiff upper lip, began to feel for Johnny. Tears filled his eyes, the corners of his mouth began to droop, and he started to cry—so much so that he continued to share in Johnny’s travail like I’d never seen before.

Jordan kept saying, “Johnny is so sad. He’s just so sad about this room. But Johnny is gonna be alright.” Hours went by. Every few minutes, the thought of Johnny having a tough time was enough to bring Jordan’s emotions to multiple breaking points. I’d watch as he wiped his face of the tears. Even when Johnny wasn’t in the room, Jordan was feeling for his friend. Guys, he’s the kindest, sweetest young man you’d ever want to meet.

By the time respite was over, I think everyone was exhausted. Johnny and Jordan were both dry-eyed and playing with their friends and ready to see Mom and Dad. I was a wreck. But the experience remains with me to this very day. I am at my best when I’m with him and his friends in church. Why? Because they live how we should live; they react as we should react. They rejoice with others and they weep with those that weep. Name a fruit of the spirit and you’ll find it in someone at respite.

As I mentioned, Jordan has since moved away. He’s making friends, adjusting to his new room at home, and he’s taking the special needs bus to school all by himself. I know that as he steps onto the playground and into his classroom, he’s asking all the right questions, saying hello to every girl, remaining positive, and just being himself. He’s my best pal. And much like he did with me in sharing memories from the time before we met, I like to think that someone he’s talking to is hearing about his adventures with Jimmy.

Do you know my friend Jimmy? Yeah. He’s the little guy that helps me.