If there is one universal truth in this life, it is this: Things change.

Two Sundays ago, Bud Trenka left Hope Street...with a little help from his
friends. On that bright winter morning in a semi-industrial section of
Stamford, Connecticut we all gathered to help Bud pack up the remainder of
his belongings and move to a new life. We as a group shared several things in
common. We were, for the most part, all members of the same recreational
bicycling club, and had spun away the hours together in warmer weather,
enjoying our passion for wheels. But most importantly, under the direction
and impetus of a small group of cyclists and skiers who started this whole
effort, the rest of us were there in Bud's small apartment on Hope Street
because we all felt it was payback time for someone who had always been
generous in helping others. The Stamford Chamber of Commerce had even named
him Volunteer of the Year at one time. On top of that, Bud had spent free
time in the non-cycling months for several years helping handicapped children
learn how to ski. Their disabilities were varied, but he learned that, where
there is determination, there is hope...and vice versa. Now in his own season
of change, he certainly had known his share in the last year and more.

You see, in the fall of 1998, Bud…always the safety-conscious rider who wore
not only the required helmet but often knee and elbow pads as
well...experienced the lesson that many of us know but choose not to think
about: In a heartbeat, your life can change forever. While riding his bike
one September day, a freak accident propelled him over the handlebars. The
resulting injury paralyzed Bud from the chest down. And so, in a second, this
active man, a talented photographer by trade and a small business owner, went
from independence to over a year in Gaylord Rehabilitation Hospital, to
reliance on others for many things. Now the small, sunny apartment he had
called home no longer supported his needs... neither was it very friendly to
the new set of wheels life had bestowed in exchange for his bike wheels. Bud
had a new apartment waiting in an assisted living facility in town.

I honestly don't know what I thought I would find that day when I went to
Bud's Hope Street apartment, only that I was going there for two reasons: to
help move his things and to interview him for the Club newsletter. I'd been
told he was very upbeat for someone who had survived such a harrowing couple
of years. When I entered the sun-streaked apartment, Bud was sitting there as
friends ... some old ones and some new ones just meeting Bud for the first
time...boxed the remains of his things under his direction. His chair was
flanked by beautiful framed photographs, samples of his business prior to the
accident, and by piles of clothes and negative files. In another corner a
large pile of things no longer needed took shape, destined for Goodwill or
the dumpster. I took a few quick photos of Bud along with Scott Maus, a
cyclist who was so instrumental in all of the efforts on his behalf. How
strange it must have been for Bud to be on the other side of the lens for a
change! And then we chatted for a while. The conversation dwelt not at all on
the accident, or thoughts of “Why” or “if only” ... the kinds of things one
might otherwise expect. Instead Bud focused on his hopes for the future, how
he would like to get his photo shop up and running again, and how grateful he
was to the friends who had sustained his small photo business during his time
away. He talked with admiration for all the people who were helping that day,
and for the major effort Scott was mounting to hold a benefit concert of
headliner folk artists next month. The money from that concert would help
Bud, who has no disability insurance, and hopefully also replace his battered
wheelchair with a motorized version.

Then, spontaneously Bud began to talk about his feelings. “ I am so
blessed,” he said, "that I'd seen in my volunteer work with handicapped
children all the things that people can do with physical disability. It was
this association that has made the difference in me...in not being bitter and
resentful. I am hopeful…I want to get back to running my photographic
business. The paralysis is not going away, so we're just moving forward with
life."

Bud taught me a lot that day about what it means to embrace change. All the
moments in our lives are our great teachers, if only we choose to listen.
Every person has the opportunity to help another, and in the act to learn
from one another, to fan the ember, the light of wisdom inside each of us.
Stress can either make us or break us, like a gem. Each diamond is formed
from a lump of carbon under extreme pressure into the thing of extraordinary
strength it is. But it is not until it is under the skillful hand of the Gem
Maker that it is transformed into a thing of beauty, as His blows cleave away
portions of us to reveal what lies within. For some, the perceived loss of
these seemingly essential “portions of us” can seem devastatingly dark. We
allow our spirits to crumble into dust. But for others, it is our opportunity
to let the Maker release the light that we have been gathering within, as
time and stress have transformed us.

We learn to be as grateful for the lessons of our lives as we are for the
people who make life more bearable. There comes a time for all of us when we
must leave behind the things and relationships that hold us back. There comes
a time when we have no more need of bicycles, or running shoes, or of putting
ourselves first before others. There comes a time when we need to travel
light, with only two essential belongings in our arms. The first of these is
friends...the only truly indispensable, portable assets in life who make our
burden light. And the last and most important is Hope.

Hope is not an address. It is a state of the soul where, even in the darkest
hour, we can read the roadmap of our futures by the light of the lessons we
have carried in our hearts. Bud may have left Hope Street two weeks ago...but
when he did, he carried with him all he needs for tomorrow.

(\o/)By Pat Kriss