Why I Believe: Chris Anselmo

I tried with all my might to push myself up off the sidewalk, but to no avail.

Drained both physically and mentally, I collapsed in exhaustion back onto the cold ground. I had fallen for the second time in five minutes, and this time, I couldn’t get back up.

On that dark side street in Cambridge, Massachusetts, only steps from my apartment, I thought about giving up on life. If it was going to be this hard, this difficult, just to get from point A to point B, why bother? I didn’t know how to continue. Curling up in a ball seemed like a preferable outcome to this horror that my life had become.

It was February 2013, four years into a disease journey that upended my life. I was only 26 years old, and my body, once athletic, was now a shell of its former self, ravaged by an unrelenting, adult-onset muscle disease called Miyoshi Myopathy. The muscle weakness, which started shortly after I graduated from college, had now progressed to the point where my legs could no longer support my own body weight. Each fall left a scar in my mind. However, I was always able to pick myself back up.

Until tonight. Now, I was too weak.

After taking a few minutes to catch my breath, I took stock of my situation. There were no street lamps to illuminate my path. No civilians on the street to rush over to lift me up. Just darkness. Impenetrable darkness.

I needed to gather my strength until I could figure out what to do next. As I contemplated the logistics of this rescue operation, a rage began to well up inside of me, replacing panic. I thought about God, and where He was in all this.

Are you enjoying this? I thought. Are you really there, and if so, why won’t you help me? Why are you making my life a living hell?

I had come to the point of no return. I could feel the fabric of my faith tearing. I waited for a voice from above, and got only silence. I pleaded for a sudden burst of strength, but felt none.

I was ready to quit. The nearby bush looked like a nice spot to wait out the rest of my life.

As I wallowed in my misery, my survival instincts were hard at work behind the scenes. I hatched an idea that I felt might work. If it didn’t, I’d have no choice but to call 911.

I crawled over to two parked cars on the street ten feet away. My shoulders and knees balked at every movement, but eventually I got into position in between the cars. I took a deep breath, and pushed myself up with all my upper body strength, my left arm on the bumper of one car and my right arm on the hood of the other. After several seconds, I made it to a standing position. I breathed a sigh of relief. I stood in place for two minutes, then, ever so slowly, I walked the rest of the way to my apartment, praying under my breath while asking God to forgive me for the way I had talked to him before.

As I lay in bed that night, I took stock of my faith life. A lifelong Catholic, I had my occasional doubts but found solace when I sought answers to my questions. In doing so, I gained a greater appreciation for my faith. It was an important part of who I was, that flicker of faith always burning even amidst the craziness of life.

I knew I had to trust God in this situation, but how? I had been dealt such a frustrating, maddening hand, and it was only getting more difficult for me by the day. Who knows what the next day had in store. Would I fall, break my leg, and never walk again?

My faith had never been tested to this degree. I was crumbling under the weight of life. Why was God letting this happen to me?

I pulled out the bible I received at my confirmation. I had read it from cover to cover over the past two years, but this time I was seeking inspiration, something that could speak to me about what was going on in a way that would bring me peace to my troubled soul.

A few months later, I finally found the answer I was looking for. It was a passage I had read many times before, but it spoke to me in a whole new way, as if I was reading it for the first time.

2 Corinthians 12:7-9:

Therefore, in order to keep me (Paul) from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

I knew all about weakness! Perhaps this disease was God’s way of shaking the complacency out of my life. Maybe I had to be weak, for a specific, unknown purpose. I prayed that I would someday understand, as it still seemed out of my grasp at the time.

In the six years since that difficult night, I have come to understand why. This disease has forced me to see life in a new way, a more empathetic, compassionate way. It has redirected me towards a career helping others living with neuromuscular disease, and using what I have learned in dealing with adversity to help others avoid the physical and emotional pitfalls I experienced.

It has shown me that we are not defined by our physical abilities, but rather who we are as a person. And that true strength comes not from the muscles in our body, but from above.

I sought a purpose for this disease, but it was purpose itself He gave me in return. A reason for being.

And for that, I will gladly boast of my weakness. Nothing compares to His power.