The Power of Faith When Tragedy Strikes

by Chris Norton

  “Chris Norton has embarked on a journey that few posses the will to endure but many can learn from. I have spent a lifetime working with the worlds extraordinary people and none surpass the drive of Chris. The story of his journey, The Power of Faith When Tragedy Strikes is a book that can illuminate your soul and inspire your life's walk.”

  ~ MIKE BARWIS, Founder & CEO, Barwis Methods Companies, First Step Foundation, Athletic Angels, Senior Advisor of Strength & Conditioning, New York Mets, Strength & Conditioning Consultant, Miami Dolphins

  “Being a football player, you know you are going to be playing a violent game. It is the lessons that we learn playing the game of football that ultimately help us take on the game of life. When I first got to meet Chris at Yankee Stadium, I knew he was very driven to get back on his feet walking again and also had an amazing support system around him. That support has led him to do amazing things in such a short amount of time. Seeing the video of him walk across stage for graduation brought tears to my eyes and motivated me more than anyone will ever know. Everything happens for reason, and I believe Chris and I were put here on earth not only to motivate each other, but millions of people around the world facing some type of adversity. Just because we have a spinal cord injury does not stop us from living our life, but it has taught us to have a newfound appreciation of life and to live it to the fullest every day.”

  ~ Eric LeGrand, Former Rutgers University defensive lineman, author of BELIEVE: My Faith and the Tackle That Changed My Life, analyst for Rutgers Football Radio Network, and sought after motivational speaker.

  “I witnessed Chris’s determination, courage, and work ethic every day for months at Barwis Methods. He inspired me to push myself harder and to never give up in achieving my goals. Chris’s journey from injury through recovery and beyond as portrayed in The Power of Faith When Tragedy Strikes will leave you ready to face whatever obstacles life throws your way.”

  ~ BRANDON GRAHAM, NFL player

  Chris:

  To Emily, Dad, Mom, Alex, Katie, family, friends, and the countless other people who have always believed in me and helped me along the way. I would not be where I am today if it wasn't for their sacrifices and care.

  Terry:

  To family and friends for renewing my faith in the goodness of people.

  MY LIFE’S journey has been blessed by wonderful parents and family, my wife and children, and by the people I have met as an athlete and in my chosen profession as a college football coach. Why? Along the way, these people impacted my life and provided me with experiences which reflected great courage, faith, perseverance, and most of all, love. Chris Norton embodies all of that and more.

  Football is the consummate team sport for it exposes a person’s inner soul. There are no pretenders as it challenges a person on every single play, but it also places a mantle on a person to live up to the sport’s challenges off the field. When I first chatted with Chris by phone in 2011, he was facing the ultimate challenge—living. A football player at Luther College, Chris suffered a spinal injury that was so debilitating that the odds were 97 to 3 against Chris even standing let alone walking again. After numerous phone conversations, his friends brought him to Columbus for a visit. I knew then that deep within Chris’s soul was the fiber found within all great football players. His courage was ever present as he never backed down from any treatment, and his effort was relentless. His spiritual faith was so strong that even Tim Tebow spoke admiringly about his love of God. Chris also embraced the love of family and friends so strongly that the challenges he faced on his journey were willed aside by the passion he possessed for the love he had for them. The unselfish love that Chris has is what every great football player possesses, it’s what causes them to fight with relentless effort for their teammate—the players next to them.

  Chris allowed me to be his friend and share his world over the past four years. He helped me reenergize my passion for the great game of football. In my twenty-seven years as a football coach I have met many players and all have had an impact on me—overwhelmingly positive. When you read Chris Norton’s book you will come to know him from his journey, and how he walked across the stage at graduation at Luther College fueled by his love of family and friends to receive his degree. A 97 to 3 underdog, Chris was the overwhelming winner in living life and in winning the hand of Emily Summers.

  Urban Meyer

  National Football Championship Collegiate Coach

  * * *

  What if it was me? What if it was my son or daughter? Where would I get my strength? How is my faith?

  ~Terry Norton, CaringBridge, October 22, 2010

  * * *

  I WAVED to the car pulling out of the driveway. My youngest daughter, Katie, waved back and the giggles between her and a friend floating out the open windows echoed softly on the cool October night. As a freshman in high school, it wouldn’t be long before Katie sat behind the wheel driving to a sleepover instead of her friend’s mom. I turned toward the SUV’s open hatch, lifted the travel grill into the back in preparation for tomorrow’s trip, and slid it between the folding chairs and the collapsible table we found useful for tailgating.

  “Save room for the cooler,” my wife, Deb, called from the garage on her way back inside the house.

  After flashing her a quick smile, I mumbled under my breath, “It’s not my first rodeo.” We’d perfected the art of tailgating in the few months our son, Chris, had played football for Iowa’s Luther College. Saturday’s game would be the first time my mom, aunt, and uncle would see him play, and I was anxious for him to do well and for them to see how happy he was in college. He was living every kid’s dream, playing more than any other freshman on the division-three team, loving school, and enjoying the many friends he’d made. It did my heart proud to see my kids thrive.

  I joined Deb in the house, washing my hands at the kitchen sink before settling in my recliner for pizza and a movie. We usually spent Friday nights out with friends, but with the game the next day and the three-hour drive, we’d elected to stay in.

  My wife turned on the TV and slipped a DVD into the player. “I told Alex we’d pick her up at eight and swing by McDonald’s for breakfast.”

  Though our oldest daughter was in her final year of nursing school at Des Moines Area Community College (DMACC), she still showed an interest in her brother’s games.

  “Did you tell her to be ready when we get there? I don’t want to be late.”

  “Mm-hmmm.” Deb nodded, passing me a slice of pepperoni.

  After dinner and a comedy I knew Chris would have enjoyed, Deb and I headed for the bedroom. Before shooing our two dogs to the foot of the bed, I drummed my fingers along the ancient Bible on my nightstand. We hadn’t made it to church last weekend, and I knew we’d be exhausted after the game and the full day of travel. “We need to go to church on Sunday,” I told Deb as she snuggled beneath the covers. Her answering grunt was non-committal.

  I lay my head on my pillow that night feeling tired but optimistic. Everything in our lives was going according plan. My kids were happy, Deb and I were happy, and I had no reason to believe things wouldn’t continue along that path. Since we’d first met at the University of Iowa, Deb and I had worked hard to create a good life and raise the family we cherished. We went to church, and we believed in God. What I didn’t realize as I turned out the light and closed my eyes was the difference between believing in God and trusting in God. I thought my faith was pretty solid, but my faith hadn’t really been challenged.

  * * *

  Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you whe
rever you go.

  ~Joshua 1:9 ESV

  * * *

  I GRABBED my headphones on the way out of my dorm room in the early hours of October 16, 2010. As I walked to the sports building, my stomach fired with a shot of adrenaline and my pace quickened. I scrolled through my playlist of game day favorites and tried to get lost in the beat as Drake’s “Forever” chanted in my ear, channeling my bravado into focused concentration, using the visualization techniques I’d honed in the last four years.

  I stared at the hills looming over Luther’s campus and saw myself leaping over the line to block a kick. As I pushed open the door and turned into the Rock Room, in my mind I was pivoting on my toes to recover the ball as it slipped from the kick returner’s grasp. While I picked up the brown paper sack filled with pregame food, I was dipping my shoulder and taking down the ball carrier with a satisfying grunt. Yeah, it was gonna be a good day.

  My focus intensified while watching game film, and the excitement in the air was palpable. Guys in the locker room were getting into the zone by jumping up and down and carting around a deer head with antlers and a red letter “C” painted on it, like they did whenever we played Central College. Some guys thumbed through the playbooks—others watched film or got taped up. Before we did a walk-through and changed into football gear, I wrapped my bad blisters and weak ankles in tape. The locker room smelled of musk and sweat, and the steam from the showers hung like a thick fog in the air.

  Five minutes before game time, we hustled through the tunnel with music echoing in our ears and thumping in our chests. Almost as soon as we hit the field, we stood at attention for the national anthem. It felt comforting, being with my teammates—my friends. We’d practiced together, lived together, and hung out together for the last eight weeks. We had a good relationship, like family, and it was a blast to spend Saturdays facing the competitor—the enemy—as a band of brothers.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with my teammates, I felt great, I felt ready, I felt healthy. Nerves skittered under my skin, and I bounced on the balls of my feet in anticipation. Even though I didn’t have a very big role because I wasn’t a starter on offense or defense, I was ready to do my job on special teams and get more reps at safety. Central was a formidable foe, and I peered across the field at the coaching staff and some players I recognized from when they’d recruited me to play for their program.

  After a slow start to the game, Luther had picked up momentum by the end of the second quarter and was mounting a comeback midway through the third. Our sideline was buzzing, and the cheering crowd had me pumped and ready to roll.

  * * *

  “If Coach Boyd liked you, you ended up with a nickname. Boyd came up with a name: “Rookie”. He called him that because Chris was that first year player that just kept showing up!”

  ~ Dan Marlow, Former Defensive Coordinator for Luther College Football

  * * *

  I ran onto the field for the kickoff. As the player positioned on the far right side of the field, my job was to contain the outside and not let the ball carrier find an opening. The kick was short, and my fingers twitched as the ball drifted to my side of the field. I was going to make the play. I needed it. Sprinting downfield as hard as I could, holding the ball carrier on the inside, I angled over to make the tackle.

  One of my teammates hit one of their blockers hard, and the sharp crack of helmets colliding echoed in my ears. Where was the ball carrier? Pure instinct drove me to the hole he planned to break through. The guy with the ball was maybe six foot two, two-hundred thirty pounds, so he had three inches and fifty pounds on me. I had to take him out below the knees. Some guys tackled headfirst, but I knew better than to lead with my head. I was respected for tackling hard, but I wasn’t reckless.

  Even though I lost the carrier for a split second, and it was hard to gauge how fast he was coming, I made an educated guess and dove low like I’d done a million times before.

  The kick returner’s knee careened into my neck, a direct shot from the side. Before I could blink, I lay face down, the pungent odor of muddy grass filling my nostrils. The clap, pop, and thud of other collisions sounded over the top of me while I waited for the pile to clear. My head didn’t feel rattled, so I tried to move. Stuck. I stared at the thick carpet of grass. Oh, crap!

  The sound of teammates disentangling and retreating to the sidelines became obvious, but I didn’t join them. I couldn’t feel anything. Oddly calm, completely motionless, I stared at divots of grass. Do not draw attention. Get up so the trainers don’t come running out. Come on, get up! This is embarrassing. It didn’t matter how long I lay there berating myself, I physically didn’t feel a thing, or make my body move.

  The tackle felt like any other hit. There wasn’t anything wrong. My head felt fine, even though it was weird that I couldn’t move.

  While playing a rival school during my junior year of high school, I lowered my shoulder to tackle their enormous quarterback and he hit me around the collarbone, rocking me backwards and making three-quarters of my body go numb. I couldn’t get up, and the same thoughts went through my head. Get up, this is embarrassing! I didn’t want to give the quarterback the satisfaction of running me over, but I couldn’t move. That time it’d taken a couple of minutes before feeling returned to my arms and my leg, and I was eventually able to sit up and walk off the field.

  The same thing must have happened with this play. Why wasn’t any feeling coming back?

  “Come on, Norty,” one of my teammates on special teams said. “Come on, man. Get over here. Let’s go. What’s wrong?”

  Luther’s head athletic trainer, Chris Kamm, sprinted onto the field. “Get back. Get away,” he told my teammate. “Don’t touch him.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the offensive team huddled on the field ready for the transition. Mortification settled over me when a hush spread over the field, and I heard players talking in low voices.

  “Oh, he’s really hurt,” someone said.

  “Something’s going on.”

  “He’s not moving.”

  Kamm knelt down on my side and put his head next to mine. “What are you feeling?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Is your head okay?”

  “It feels fine.” That was the truth.

  “Do you feel any ringing in your ears?”

  “No.”

  “Are you breathing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m breathing fine. Everything’s fine. I just can’t move right now. I don’t know why.”

  Kamm took a deep breath. “Don’t move your head, but tell me, can you move anything else?”

  “Not currently.”

  “All right,” he said in a firm but compassionate tone that helped convince me nothing serious was wrong. “I’m going to grab your hand. Let me know if you can feel it. Can you feel this?”

  “No.” As he called for the other trainers and a doctor who was present at the field, the tiniest twinge of unease skimmed along the edge of my subconscious, but I ignored it.

  The doctor knelt in the grass out of my line of vision. “Can you move your right fingers? Can you move your left fingers? Now try making a fist.”

  I kept trying, but I couldn’t do any of it.

  “We need to stabilize him and roll him onto his back,” Kamm said. Kamm placed his knees on either side of my helmet, making sure my head didn’t move. The doctor knelt at the main part of my body, and the student trainers held my legs. They turned me over on time sequence. One-two-three. Now I was face up, and they continued to poke and touch me.

  “Can you feel this?”

  “Can you feel that?”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “Is your head ringing?”

  Face up, I saw a cluster of bugged-eyed student trainers standing around me in a semi-circle. They had a decent understanding of what was going on, having gone through some training themselves, and I could tell they were kind of tense by the way they g
aped with furrowed brows. I disregarded their open-mouthed stares and focused on Kamm and the physician.

  “I’m fine,” I told them. “Everything’s good, but I can’t feel anything right now. I can’t move anything.”

  The sun’s rays came in at an angle, but the people standing over me and the trainers and doctor testing my sensations and movements, blocked me from the glare. I lay there completely calm, embarrassed by the scene I’d caused, waiting patiently for my sensations to return. At eighteen years old and in the best shape of my life, I felt invincible, like nothing serious could ever happen to me. This would pass; I’d jog off the field and have a great story to tell when the game was over. But after about ten minutes of answering questions and following instructions, I started inhaling a bit harder.

  The questions didn’t stop. “Are you breathing okay? Are you comfortable?”

  I was fine, and I wasn’t out of breath, but I wasn’t able to take in as much air as I wanted. I couldn’t speak a full sentence without taking a breath. I’d breathe in, say a couple of words, and then repeat the breathing-speaking-breathing pattern all over again. The sensation was really weird, and it chipped away at my composure.

  My voice had always been kind of low and monotone, but it started getting softer. I wasn’t able to speak as loud as I wanted. I wasn’t struggling, but I really had to work at inhaling because the air was just not getting through. That, more than anything, sent my panic meter rising.

  A couple of my coaches came over, as well as Central’s head coach, Jeff McMartin, and leaned between my trainers and the physician. “You’re all right,” they said before easing back. “No worries, Norty. You’ll be fine. Just stay there. Just be calm.”