I Can Only Imagine Page 7

  Divine Interruption I

  Let me rewind a bit to introduce a new plot twist that happened during my sophomore year. An event lasting only a few seconds affected the rest of my high school days in a major way, and actually influenced the direction of the rest of my life.

  After playing football for years in city leagues, I put everything I had into playing high school ball. That’s what Dad had always wanted. His passion for the pigskin caused me to be consumed with it to try to please him. Even though things between us were beginning to go much better, old habits and human patterns don’t die easily. As I took my position on the line of scrimmage, knowing a pass play had been called and I might get the ball, I remembered my dad’s voice taunting me: “I don’t go down when they hit me. But you, Bart, you go down too easy. That’s your problem.”

  The maddening thing about verbal abuse is how the words you’ve heard replay in your head hundreds of times, even when the person is not around or has stopped saying those things to you. Like the tapes playing in my Walkman, Dad’s criticisms and cut-downs were on repeat. But the difference was I never chose to push Play—instead, those hurtful words just randomly sounded off at the worst possible times. They were a lousy motivator, but they drove me to go all out and take risks to make a play. My end goal was not just pleasing but impressing Dad.

  I had started out as a lineman, but I switched to tight end at the beginning of tenth grade and was just two months in at my new position. During a pre-game scrimmage, we were running plays—offense against defense—when a pass play was called. The center snapped the ball, and I fired off the line, running full speed. I ran my pattern, made my cut, and turned. There was the ball, thrown like a rocket by the quarterback, but it was high. I jumped straight up as far as possible to make sure I could make the catch.

  While I hung in midair, two linebackers ran into me, one from each side, and hit helmet-to-helmet—with both my feet sandwiched in between. I felt the force of the collision, and then a horrible sting ran all the way up my body. The bones in both my ankles were immediately broken.

  I fell to the ground in excruciating pain. I quickly realized whatever had happened was not going to be a shake-it-off-and-get-back-in-the-game thing. The coaches took one look at my feet and called an ambulance.

  After the doctors reviewed the X-rays, they told me my ankles were shot. While they would heal, I could never risk more injury by playing football again. That is, if I wanted to be able to keep walking for the rest of my life.

  So, with the sudden surprise of the elimination of sports from my schedule, I begrudgingly joined the school choir for my elective replacement. My singing voice hadn’t changed when I hit puberty, and I could still hit the same high notes I had as a child. For an adult professional singer, that’s awesome, but when you’re a teenager having to sing around your peers, not so much. I had learned to save singing for church. Now that a wheelchair and then crutches were a part of my life, I found myself trying to anonymously, invisibly blend in with the choir kids. (Ewww!)

  Isn’t it interesting how some life-changing devastations are actually like the crossover switches on train tracks that take you in a totally new direction, often forcing you onto the path you were supposed to be on all along? God had certainly brought a divine interruption into my life, taking me out of sports and putting me into choir, but then my life took yet another unexpected twist.

  Divine Interruption II

  A friend of mine who wanted to audition for the school’s show choir really wanted to sing the Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder hit song “Ebony and Ivory,” a duet requiring a male who had a high voice. So to help him out, I auditioned with him and sang Stevie’s part. When Mrs. Fincher, the choir and show choir director, heard me sing by myself for the first time, she was completely surprised—pleasantly surprised. She pulled me aside and told me she was putting me in the show choir.

  “Whoa! Wait! I was just helping my buddy out. I had no intention of this being my audition too. Uh-uh! No! I can’t do this!” I protested. “What are you trying to do to me? I only got into choir in the first place to get my required credits. I’m not an overachiever trying to do extracurricular stuff.”

  She just glared at me and said, “You can and you will. And there will be no further discussion about it.”

  Not believing what was happening, I went at her again. “No, no, no, you don’t understand. I am a Millard. Millards play sports. Millards do not sing and act.”

  She was unshaken. “You have a gift, Bart. A gift. And in my class, you will be required to use it—or fail. It’s your choice.”

  Running out of arguments, I tried another tactic: “I don’t sing that Broadway stuff, and I certainly can’t act!”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  I was growing desperate. I decided to flatter her. “Look, you are a nice person, a really good person. I like you. I respect you, but there is no way, no way at all, you will ever get me onto that stage.”

  She turned, looked over her glasses at me, and glared. She wasn’t mean—just really serious, with that give-up-because-you-will-not-change-my-mind look. Actually, it was a lot like when one of my Mammaws would let me know when negotiations were officially over.

  It was too late. Mrs. Fincher had heard me and made up her mind. I was, by golly, now in the show choir—like it or not.

  I owe her a great debt for sticking to her guns to force me to overcome my fear and step out of my comfort zone to sing a solo on stage in front of a packed house of peers and parents. (Foreshadowing, you think?)

  I guess you could also say that was the moment someone discovered something about me I didn’t even know. It’s one thing to believe in yourself, but when others around you start to join in and encourage you, it’s a totally different dynamic.

  Soloing in the Sanctuary

  I was a latchkey kid, coming home to an empty house after school until Dad got home from work. So I often rode the bus to the stop closest to the church, went into the worship center, and sang along with my favorite Christian artists.

  Church sanctuaries all over the United States sit empty most of the week. I took advantage of this at our church, using the worship center for my vocal studio for a couple of hours every weekday. I would sing and sing and sing. I had no idea at the time I was rehearsing for my career.

  The church had a giant cassette tape deck, like my Walkman on steroids. I would fire up the soundboard and turn on the amps. One day, I saw a set of super-nice, over-the-ear headphones plugged into the tape deck and put them on. I reached into my bag and pulled out the latest and greatest cassette from Steven Curtis Chapman—a CCM legend—popped it in, and hit Play.

  The next sound I heard through the phones was Steven’s “His Strength Is Perfect,” which was such a powerful message for me at that point in my life. I was immersed. Overwhelmed. The sound was incredible. The words went deep. As the verse began, I started to sing along . . . loudly.

  You know how people can’t hear how earsplittingly loud they’re singing when they have headphones on? But I was in an empty auditorium—or so I thought.

  Unbeknownst to me, Doug, our new music and youth pastor—who had no idea I could sing—had walked into the sanctuary. I was paying zero attention, lost as always in the music, still singing at the top of my lungs. He heard the music still blaring through the stage speakers, so he walked over and shut down the power to the system. But because I had on the headphones with the song still playing, I didn’t realize that now all anyone could hear was my voice.

  Doug heard me belt out, His strength is perfect when our strength is gone. He’ll carry us when we can’t carry on. Raised in His power, the weak become strong. His strength is perfect.† By this time, everyone knew about my dad’s illness and how I was helping with his care, so the power of the message I was singing wasn’t lost on him.

  So now, the new worship pastor knew I could sing too. At school and at church, singing was becoming my thing, totally by “accident.”

/>   A Millard in a Musical?

  Each year Mrs. Fincher and the drama teacher teamed up to produce a full-scale musical production, casting the roles according to acting and singing skills. True to her word, Mrs. Fincher announced they were putting me in as an extra in Fiddler on the Roof. While I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, I figured I could just blend in and sing with the chorus. But after that musical’s run was over, she threatened me with the lead in the offering of Oklahoma! planned for my junior year. I wasn’t at all ready for that idea and just brushed her off. I didn’t even audition for a role.

  I forgot all about what she had told me—until the casting list was made public at school.

  A friend walked by me and said, “Hey, Bart. Congratulations.” Another passed me and said, “Way to go, Millard.” I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

  Just then Shannon came running around the corner, grabbed me, and said, “Congratulations!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You haven’t heard yet? I have to say, I’m a little jealous.”

  No one was more confused than I was. I asked again, “What are you talking about?” She told me to go look at the bulletin board where the director had posted the casting sheet for the musical.

  We headed toward the board, and, sure enough, there at the top of the list, I saw my name as the male lead: “Bart Millard as Curly.”

  Shannon put her arm on my shoulder, grinned ear-to-ear, and asked, “So? How excited are you?”

  At that moment, I was terrified. In complete and total disbelief. They had done it: my teachers had conspired together to cast me as a lead to sing—and to act—just as they had said they would the year before.

  I’ll never forget the moment I stepped out for the first time in full cowboy costume to sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from Oklahoma! While it felt strange, it was also oddly comforting. Dad, Mammaw Millard, Shannon, and Kent were in the audience, middle center. Dad was glad I had found something I could connect with since sports were taken away. He was proud of what I was accomplishing onstage.

  Shannon said that when I started to belt the first song, Mammaw Millard leaned over to her and said, “Mercy me! That can’t be his real voice!” Shannon assured her it was, but I think everyone was quite surprised that night. While they all knew I could sing, my acting put my performance on a totally different scale.

  When my first song was over, I was completely caught off guard by the audience’s response. It was kind of like the first time I had held Shannon’s hand—it felt right and peaceful, like when you open a gift and realize it will be an important part of your life for a very long time.

  My senior year, the teachers decided to put on The Music Man. They offered me the male lead again, but because I had a reputation as an unemployed comedian, I wanted to play Mayor George Shinn, the pompous but playful governing official of River City. I closed out my high school choir and acting career as the comic relief.

  Mrs. Fincher was the first person to convince me that I had a gift that not only had to be opened but also needed to be shared. She was an amazing encouragement and inspiration to me. But professional singer wasn’t a popular career choice in Greenville, Texas, so no one, at least at that point in my life, thought I would take my newly discovered talent past high school. Regardless, there was a new truth I had come to accept about myself, in spite of all the fears and flaws I’d been reminded of my entire life: I can sing.

  Life Lessons from My Movie Dad

  If you have been even a casual movie watcher over the years, chances are you’ve seen a film starring Dennis Quaid. Since his career began in the mid-1970s, he has appeared in every genre, from family films to sci-fis and rom-coms to westerns. Dennis played my dad in the film version of my story.

  One of the first days of shooting, Dennis pulled me aside and said, “Bart, I really want to make you proud. I want to make your dad proud. I want to represent Arthur well. But I don’t have him to talk to, so you’re my guy. You need to tell me what I need to know to get this right.”

  In scene after scene, we talked about how he would interpret my dad to the camera. Often, as soon as the director said “Cut” after a difficult scene, Dennis would look straight over at me—to see if I was okay after watching something so emotionally draining and to see what I thought about his performance.

  Watching Dennis portray my father was like working with a counselor, helping me process struggles and emotions from my past. In one particularly difficult scene, after J. Michael Finley (the actor who played me) walked out the door of the film set, I turned to watch Dennis. To my surprise, as the camera continued to roll, I began to see what Dad might have felt after I had left the room and he was alone.

  Witnessing the struggle and regret on the actor’s face brought me to tears. I had never thought, How did Dad feel after something happened between us? Seeing that was so hard but oddly healing at the same time. I began to consider what Dad might have gone through in those private moments, the grief and anguish he might have experienced from both feeling and inflicting so much pain. In a strange way, I felt compassion for my dad even while watching scenes depicting the abuse.

  Being on the movie set was certainly a cathartic experience, and it brought up new emotions in me. They say that hurt people hurt people, and for the first time, that truth really connected. I felt sorry for my dad and what he had gone through.

  Dennis also encouraged me that there were some things the movie could not depict, and I needed to hold them in my heart, just for me. He did an incredible job of portraying my father throughout the entire film, and his heart and sensitivity to me was so gracious. And, yes, I am certain that Dad would have been proud and honored by Dennis’s performance.

  Five

  IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

  You put me here for a reason,

  You have a mission for me,

  You knew my name and You called it,

  Long before I learned to breathe.

  —MERCYME, “IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE,” FROM UNDONE (2004)*

  While I was not certain about the exact moment Dad came to Christ, it was becoming very clear to me that he had definitely embraced the gospel. He wasn’t very outspoken about his faith, but I saw the transformation in him in our home, behind closed doors. The man he was in private was now the same man he was in public. He was no longer the man I had grown up with. But just as no one really knew how bad my dad was before, now no one could really appreciate how godly he had become after giving his life to Christ. One of the inspiring dynamics we see throughout the Gospels is how consistent and balanced Jesus was—being the same person to everyone He met. I saw that same quality become real in my dad.

  Often I could hear him praying for my brother and me behind his closed bedroom door. Sometimes I would hear him weeping over the loss of my mom through their divorce. To go from anticipating a shouting match or a whipping to hearing the faint whispers of him praying for me was a personal trip from hell to heaven on earth.

  While month by month there was consistently less of Dad and more of Jesus, the cancer caused his weight to drop from around three hundred fifty pounds down into the one hundreds. When Mom found out that Dad was sick, she started showing up a lot, trying to take care of the three of us. Stephen and I resented her because we felt that it was too little too late. But Dad and Mom started to talk a lot. Each expressed regret about their past and offered forgiveness to the other. I’m sure that time was hard but good for them both to have the opportunity to wipe away the anger and grief, to get out all that had been between them for all those years.

  Later Mom told me that one night, they had started talking about their lives as our parents. They shared all the great qualities they saw in Stephen and me, and how, no matter how hard they worked to mess us up, we actually turned out to be fine young men. After all the years of dysfunction, it was nice to hear that they had such a positive and healthy discussion about how we turned out.

  There was one com
plication to Mom’s involvement in our lives: Jeri, Dad’s longtime girlfriend, was at our house a lot, and we were obviously very close to her. In fact, Stephen and I agreed that Dad should have married her years before, though he said he did not want to “saddle her down” with his illness and become her “burden.” The entire situation was strange to me, as so often both women were there, but Mom would be the one to wash Dad’s hair and perform other intimate caretaking responsibilities. They all seemed to navigate it well and allow for each other’s places, so I never said anything. But I also noticed Jeri often taking the high road and backing off or leaving to respect Mom. Jeri showed true love and grace—that’s the kind of woman she was and why we all loved her.

  Dad’s relationship with Jeri had grown to be much like the one he had with Mammaw Millard. She, too, could handle Dad. Jeri was good for him, and he was always in a better mood and frame of mind when she was around. She loved the Lord, was always looking out for Stephen and me, and encouraged Dad constantly in his relationship with us.

  The War Is Over

  During my senior year, I started dating a girl Dad didn’t like. (He always preferred Shannon to anyone else.) This young lady was a Christian, and Dad had no moral disagreement with her, but there were two glaring issues: first, Dad didn’t agree with how I was isolating myself from my youth group and becoming completely focused on her; and second, he just didn’t think she was right for me. (As a parent myself now, I get how important that latter discernment is.)

  To be honest, I had become this girl’s pet. I would do anything for her. I think Dad saw how I was acting and knew it wasn’t good for me.

  One day we got into an argument about her. We both got heated as the situation escalated. By now, I was essentially a full-grown man, and he was much smaller. Dad’s anger got the best of him, and he snapped. He grabbed a dinner plate and, from behind, smashed it over my head. Pieces of china scattered all over the floor as my head started bleeding.