ANGELS ON EARTH : May, 1999
I've Come A Long Way
By William L. Ester
On July 25, 1996, I stood at the summit of Washington's Mount Rainier for the second time in my life, in the same spot where I had
exultantly planted my hiking boots 26 years earlier. Breathing in the thin alpine air, I slowly looked around. In every direction, the view
at 14, 411 feet was as stunning as I'd remembered: snow crystals glinting in the morning sun; the spine of the Cascade range jutting
against the sky clear into Oregon; the meadows below bright with blooming wildflowers; the Pacific an inky sliver on the horizon.
Climbing Rainier that first time had been my high-school graduation gift from my parents, the crowning achievement of my
youth. Yet thinking back on the past two years, I realized it felt even more glorious this time around! Thank you, God, I thought,
overwhelmed with gratitude...
I'd grown up an independent, self-sufficient guy. Maybe it was working our family farm, knowing our livelihood depended on
our own labors. Maybe it was because my teenage acne problem made me feel so awkward around other people that I stuck to solitary
pursuits, like hiking and playing piano. Maybe it was just my nature. In any case, I liked doing things on my own. Marrying Nancy and
bringing up three kids had shifted my thinking some; I'd joined our church choir as the accompanist and enjoyed the fellowship. When it
got right down to it, though, I relied on God to show me what I needed to do, and I took it upon myself to get it done. That approach
had always worked for me.
Until May 28, 1994, the last Saturday in the month (and very nearly the last in my life). I was working my weekend job, my
18-wheeler loaded with 8,500 gallons of gasoline I had to deliver to Milwaukee service stations. It was warm as summer that afternoon,
and I had my windows rolled down when I exited off Good Hope Road onto the cloverleaf that would bring me to Highway 45 South.
I'd taken this exit hundreds of times, and I knew what I had to do: come off the overpass in eighth gear, tap on the brake, downshift into
sixth gear, then ease into the curve.
A quarter of the way into it, something felt terrible wrong. Before I had time to react, the right side of my truck rose up. The
entire 80,000-pound rig tilted to the left, I was powerless to stop it. The side of the tank slammed into the pavement. I smelled gasoline
as it began pouring out of a gash in the tank.
I heard a giant whoosh, like a thousand camp stoves igniting all at once. Flames engulfed the cab as it flipped onto its roof. The
next thing I knew my entire body was on fire. I was being burned alive!
God, help me! I pleaded. What do I do?
Instinctively I closed my eyes and held my breath against the thick smoke. When the rig finally stopped tumbling, I groped for
an escape from the searing flames. I felt cool air on my skin. The window!
Somehow I managed to jump out. I threw myself onto the grass by the roadside and rolled. Then I stood again, dazed. I started
stumbling back up the cloverleaf.
A man met me halfway, "I saw what happened," he said. "Let me help you." His gaze was calm-and calming-from behind his
glasses. "Why don't you lie down?" he urged. "You have to take it easy." I did as he said. He pulled a blanket from his car trunk and
covered me. Then he got some ice from another driver and had me cup the chunks between my palms.
Within minutes an ambulance zoomed up. EMT's cut away my clothes and poured sterile water on my still-smoking flesh.
They rushed me to St. Mary's Regional Burn Center in Milwaukee. There a doctor in the ER told me I'd been burned on 60% of my
body. The worst of the third-degree burns were on my arms, my hands and the right side of my back.
This can't be! I thought, as I was wheeled up to a room. I'm supposed to play piano for the choir tomorrow. I stared at my
charred, mangled hands, suddenly aware that my life might never be the same again.
Then Nancy was at my side. "Everyone's praying for you, Bill," she told me. "You're going to get through this." Her eyes
shone with such determination and her voice sounded so strong, I believed her.
She brought our kids to the hospital the next day. My face and body were swollen beyond recognition from all the IV fluids
being pushed into me to ward off infection, and I was worried I might scare them. But Paul, Kevin and Carolyn were unfazed. Eleven
year-old Carolyn said with a big smile, "Hi, Dad, how you doin'?" Just like always. It reassured me more than she knew.
That afternoon my mom and dad arrived. "We brought you something," Mom said, setting a cardboard picture frame on the bed
stand. "Remember that." It was more a statement than a question. When I saw the photo, I understood. It was a snapshot of me at 18,
atop Mount Rainier. My parents must have dug through decades' worth of family pictures to find the one they knew would mean the
most to me.
I read the inscription they'd added, from Psalm 121: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."
Looking at my family gathered around me, I felt their love, as powerful and inspiring to me as that verse, " I'm going to climb Mount
Rainier again someday!"
The blessings didn't stop (or for that matter, start) there. Later that day I was assigned to a plastic surgeon, Dr. Gerald Govin,
whose skill and compassion were to become vital in my recovery. He told me the immediate help I got made a huge difference. My
palms were saved because John Washburn, the man on the highway, insisted I ice them. And an ambulance reached me in record time
because Deputy Sheriff Camille Rose radioed 911 the second she saw my truck going over. Then, during the six weeks I lay nearly
helpless in the hospital, friends kept our kids well fed, knowing Nancy was too busy. Hundreds of cards poured in, many from
strangers who'd heard about my accident on TV. People in churches around the country prayed for me.
I needed all those reminders that God was with me the next two years as I underwent more surgeries and sweated through
grueling physical and occupational therapy sessions, five hours a day, Monday through Friday. Gradually I relearned how to use my
hands: to button my shirt, grip the steering wheel, play the piano (good thing that was considered therapeutic!).
Finally in the spring of 1996, I got the go-ahead from Dr. Govin to make my second attempt on Mount Rainier. My son Paul
decided to climb with me, and the rest of the family went to Washington too, to cheer us on. The trek to the top was a definite
challenge, three days of strenuous climbing using ropes, ice axes and crampons to negotiate the heavily glaciated slopes. But it felt so
incredible to be up there again, signing my name in the summit register, I forgot how tired I was.
Before I headed back down to camp, I took one last look around. And I saw in the glint of sun on snow, the sparkle of Nancy's
eyes; in the peaks that led up to Mount Rainier, the love of my parents, my kids, hundreds of get-well cards that had brightened my
hospital room; in the ribbon of ocean on the horizon, the steady current of prayers that had sustained me. I saw how I had made it
through an ordeal more daunting than the highest mountain.
I'd come a long way, all right. With faith, family and friends, with all the people God brought into my life to help me-angels,
every one.
