Drawing in a sharp breath, I determined to follow through with the plan. At my request, my home health aide had stuck the videotape in the machine before she left for the night. "It's time to finally leave the past where it belongs-in the past," I stated resolutely to my cat. Unimpressed, Puddin yawned, turned her back to me, and curled up by my feet.

As a training tool, my husband and I had taped all of our practice sessions, which we'd pored over every night. Planning to perform a high-flying trapeze act the following season-our ultimate goal-consumed our every waking hour.

Grasping a mouthstick firmly between my teeth, I turned toward the remote control and hit "play." My pulse quickened as the scene unfolded: a nice high swing, followed by a missed connection to the catcher and a spine-splitting sprawl into the net. Moments later the wail of sirens announced the arrival of the paramedics. While my husband and a friend slowly lowered the massive net-and my crumpled body--to the ground, the tape ran out.

A jumble of emotions swirled through my mind, but one thought overpowered all the others. I had spent the last four years writing about how God had helped me out of the pit of despair into which I'd sunk after this accident, and how He had become the focal point of my life. Indeed, He had become my very reason for living. But even back then, before I knew or cared about Him, God loved me.

Turning off the machine, I pondered the direction my life had taken since the accident. Despite permanent quadriplegia, a divorce, and a career change (there are few openings for quadriplegic trapeze artists), my present life bears a striking resemblance to the past.

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