1
This is it: all the years of training, studying, and
prepping have led to this moment. My entire nervous
system is on overload, and adrenaline is starting to kick in.
The Lord is on my side, though; He has never failed me.
As the helicopter banks to the west at high speeds,
the captain gives me instructions via headset, yelling over
the loud hum of the blades above our heads.
“Remember, Thomas, count to ten immediately
following your exit from the helicopter. Your parachute has
to come out at the right time. Radio your contact as soon as
you land. Good luck!”
“Thank you, sir!” I yell back.
Gripping the handle above the door frame, I take
three deep breaths and pray. Lord, please be with me. Open
4my parachute; remind me of my training. Thank you for this
moment. In Jesus’s name, amen.
Releasing my grip, I gently push my body out of the
helicopter, into the open sky. One . . . two . . . three . . . four
. . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten. I yank
the cord; within seconds my body jolts to the force of the
parachute blossoming out of the backpack.
The open sky is more peaceful than I recall. No
clouds in sight—a clear sunny day. As the ground gets
closer and closer, I can make out the dense jungle below,
tree after tree after tree.
My fear of large spiders haunts me still, their freaky
eyes paired with long legs, crawling all over me. My
thoughts go to the time on the family motorboat on Lake
George when a wolf spider crawled up my leg, stopped at
my knee, then ran quickly back to its hiding place. I was so
scared, I almost jumped out of the boat into the lake. My
father, as he steered the vessel, told me to stay calm and he
would take care of the spider when we docked at the house.
5The Lord pulls me back to reality and instructs me
to concentrate on landing. I navigate the trees and
successfully touch down on the ground. Checking out my
body I find no broken bones, scratches, or bruises. I ditch
the parachute backpack, pull out my radio, and dial into the
correct frequency for contacting my partner.
“Hello, Steve. Are you there, Steve, over?” I speak
into the radio.
No response.
“Steve, do you copy, over?”
Still nothing.
Without warning, a shuffle of plants startles me, and
I turn around. My eyes grow wide with fear, as I make eye
contact with a very large lion. It roars, showing the sharp
teeth that have torn the flesh of many animals before me. It
jumps at me.
*
*
*
*
6The beeping of the coffee maker alerts me and pulls
me toward my kitchen. The microwave clock tells me it is
only 7:30 a.m. It is Saturday, and the sun is shining brightly
through the windows of my condo.
As I pour another cup of Nicaragua dark coffee, the
thoughts of my daydream still linger. Living with autism
has its advantages. I am able to memorize all three of my
credit card numbers or concentrate on my passions for
hours, and time does not exist. But the disadvantages are
draining: daydreaming and social anxiety—not to mention
difficulty in talking to the opposite sex.
On my thirtieth birthday the Lord reminded me that
He made me perfectly in His image. Not a single mistake
was executed when He formed me in my mother’s womb
(Psalm 139:13–16).
The fabric of the recliner complements the
breathtaking views from our 45th-floor condo in New York
City. Manhattan is visible; the One World Trade Center, a
symbol of our freedom, stands proudly against the
7American sky. Those who remember the horrific events of
September 11, 2001 will never forget the three thousand
humans who lost their lives, along with the destruction of
the Twin Towers, where the One World Trade Center stands
today.
As I sip my delicious cup of joe, I ponder the
question, Why do people call coffee “joe”? Coffee is
essentially hot bean water. What the heck does the name
“joe” have to do with bean water? I do not understand
common phrases society has conjured up; they make no
sense. Social queues are even more confusing.
One day at the mall Stephen and I were having
lunch at our favorite fast-food restaurant, Chipotle, outside
of Manhattan. A couple of Stephen’s friends—Dom and
Jake—sat with us; and it was my first time meeting them.
They were old friends of Stephen’s from when he used to
live in Los Angeles.
Dom introduced himself to me by saying his name
and reaching out his hand. Being me, I was confused as to
8whether he wanted to shake my hand or do the common fist
bump. I assumed a fist bump, so I made a fist. To my
surprise and embarrassment, my fist hit his fingers; clearly
Dom was going for a handshake. He laughed it off; I did as
well, but deep down I was embarrassed. Throughout lunch,
the misunderstanding of the handshake lingered in my
brain, taunting me and forcing me to overthink and analyze.
Situations like that irritate me, not knowing how to
properly greet or meet people for the first time. I promised
myself, The next time I meet someone new I’ll do better.
Spoiler alert—I did not.
