by Melody Edwards

Created on: December 28, 2006   Last Updated: May 20, 2007

It was a crisp clear day in the spring of 2002. The University of Pennsylvania relays were about to be underway. A rainbow of colors emerged as runners from colleges all over the U.S. entered the stadium to compete. Spectators made their way to the bleachers with coolers filled with water, Gatorade, fruit and snacks. Vendors were readily available for those who came empty handed. Runners stepped to the tables to receive their numbers and then walked with authority and confidence taking their rightful places. Movement was the theme of the day. An array of beautiful bodies stretched and danced, sleek muscles, pulsating and throbbing as they prepared to be stretched almost to their limit. A voice pierced throughout the stadium giving clarity and direction to the jumbled maze. Hearts were pounding and adrenaline raced as the first heap up awaited the signal.

Anticipation was in the air - it was time.

The crack of the starter gun echoed in the stadium. People chanted and cheered as repeatedly each heap competed for their school. The runners were focused, driving, forging physically and mentally on to the finish line, each one challenging their own abilities and goals. The 100-yard dash was about to start. He stepped up to the line and jogged in place. He gave one last stretch arms, pecks, thighs and calves before he placed the demand on them. He shook his hands and bent over into a starting position, fingertips on the ground, backside up, one knee bent, heel up, one leg stretched back. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for the crack of the gun. There it was. There was no sense of time or space only his feet hitting the pavement. His heart, lungs, legs and arms pumped together in rhythmic succession as they propelled him toward the finish line. It was over as quickly as it started.

Something was wrong terribly wrong.

It was a nine-hour procedure that would change his life. His heart could not meet the demand he placed on it. When they wheeled him out of the operating room, his mother was there waiting. Eyes closed, he wept like a baby. The doctor's words pierced through his being and his mother also wept for him and his shattered dream. It broke her heart to see him trying to be strong, yet so young and vulnerable, just two weeks away from his 21st birthday.

There were no answers, no words, no explanations. It was just so. He was his mother's firstborn and she watched him struggle to get his life back, just as she watched him struggle to walk when he was a baby. There were silent whys and whispered questions from hearts that were full, to God's ears. There only seemed to be silence and the emergent gift that broke forth with a mighty force. He grasped with all the focus and drive of his feet running on the pavement. It was unique, it was wonderful, and it spoke to many. He embraced the gift and put all of his emotion, his fears, his frustration and devastation on canvas. He began to breath through vibrant colors and movement on canvas. He could feel it once more the passion no sense of time or space, but this time it was the pulse of the brush on a canvas.

His heart had found a new rhythm as his spirit soared toward the finish line.

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