Bulging red rubber tubs of decorations were scattered around the living room of my log cabin as I prepared for the holidays: Christmas lights and ornaments for the tree, red and green candles for the windows, holly for the fireplace.

I’d wrestled the tree into its stand. Now I needed a quilt to spread around the bottom for a skirt.

I went to the linen cupboard. One quilt immediately caught my eye: a hand-stitched antique. Do I really want to put this on display? I thought as I pulled it out. The one she gave me?

“She” was Mrs. Messner, my ex-husband’s mother. In 25 years of marriage I never got comfortable enough with her to use her first name. Our relationship was always tense, but then she did something I could never forgive her for.

Just looking at the quilt—hand-stitched by Mrs. Messner’s mother—made me furious all over again.

Twenty years ago I was scheduled for a medical procedure that would take me away from home, and my husband was coming with me. That meant we needed a babysitter for our beloved dog, Muffin. “I’ve got a fenced-in yard where she can play,” Mrs. Messner offered.

“You’re sure you’ll keep a close eye on her?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said.

She promised, I thought angrily, shaking out the quilt. For all that was worth. Two days after we dropped Muffin off, Mrs. Messner called to report that our dog had gone missing. Apparently she hadn’t been at Mrs. Messner’s an hour before she slipped out of the yard and ran away.

She wasn’t even wearing her collar because I’d neglected to put it back on after giving her a bath. Of all the terrible times for Muffin to have been without her collar!

I searched the neighborhood, going door-to-door with pictures of Muffin. Mrs. Messner had put signs up: LOST DOG $5 REWARD. Five dollars! That was all Muffin was worth to her. It infuriated me all these years later.

Weeks went by with no sign of Muffin, and I had to accept the fact that she was never coming back. “Could you tell me what happened that day?” I asked Mrs. Messner. “What was she doing when you last saw her? Do you have any idea how she got out of the yard? Did you forget to latch the gate?”

“Quit upsetting everybody about that dog, Roberta,” she snapped. “You’ve got me so worked up I’m getting hives. Just go out and get yourself another dog.” I was stunned. Speechless. Another dog? That was her solution? How could that woman be so cruel?

Muffin didn’t mean anything to her, and she didn’t care what Muffin meant to me. I got down on my knees and yanked the quilt around the tree.

Mrs. Messner’s quilt was the perfect accent, but I couldn’t appreciate it anymore. All I could think about when I looked at it was my 20-year-old grudge. I didn’t need that at Christmas.

As I folded the quilt back up, a new thought popped into my head. More like a command, really: Give the quilt back to Mrs. Messner.

Where had such a crazy idea come from? I would have laughed if I wasn’t so angry. Why should I give Mrs. Messner anything? I stuck the quilt back in the linen cupboard and chose another for the tree skirt.

The quilt’s a family heirloom. Surely she’d like to have it back. I couldn’t quiet the voice in my head no matter what I did. Since Mrs. Messner’s mother had died, I supposed it made the quilt all the more special to those who loved her. But giving it back would mean having to speak to Mrs. Messner.

I tried to imagine calling her. What would I say? I stared at the phone.

Wish her a blessed Christmas. The voice was hard to abide. So now I was not only supposed to do something nice, but say something nice too? That was too much. I vacuumed stray needles around the bottom of the tree. I finished decorating and put away the empty tubs. Thoughts of Mrs. Messner nagged at me.

I went back to the cupboard and took her quilt out again. The Christmas lights illuminated the careful stitching, a perfect 12 to every inch. A lot of love went into this quilt, I thought.

When Muffin disappeared, what hurt the most was thinking Mrs. Messner didn’t care how much Muffin meant to me. Was I doing the same thing with this quilt? It was made with a love Mrs. Messner could appreciate far more than I could. And it was Christmas, after all.

I picked up the phone and dialed. “Mrs. Messner?” I said when she answered. “This is Roberta. I was just admiring that lovely quilt your mother made. The one you gave me.”

I paused hopefully, but was met with silence on the other end of the phone.

“What do you need?” Mrs. Messner said. Couldn’t a single conversation with this woman be easy?

I took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I was wondering,” I said, “since your mother has passed on, if you would like to have the quilt back? The beautiful one she made.”

Silence. What more could I say? I’d done what I had to do. I braced myself for another curt reply. “Mrs. Messner, are you still there?”

“You can’t know what this means to me, Roberta,” she said. “I don’t own a single thing Mom made. I would so love to have that quilt again.” Mrs. Messner’s voice had a sweetness in it that I had never heard before.

“I’ll send it to you right away,” I said. I heard my own voice softening too when I wished her a merry Christmas.

I hung up feeling lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from my chest. For the first time in 20 years I thought about Muffin without fuming over an unlatched gate, a paltry reward and the dog collar I’d neglected to put back on. Perhaps my bitterness at Mrs. Messner had been inflamed by my own guilty conscience.

I wrapped the quilt in tissue paper and wrote on a holiday card: “Dear Mrs. Messner, Wishing you and your dear ones a blessed Christmas filled with nothing but love, Roberta.”

I packaged up the quilt and tucked in the card. I’d chosen one with an angel on it. Because that was not just any voice in my head telling me to consider Mrs. Messner. That was a Christmas angel speaking to my heart. And I would never forget the gift she gave me. The gift of forgiveness.

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The bedroom door opened at five the morning of October 31 last year. My 13-year-old daughter, Bethany, stuck her head in, her long blonde hair falling over her face. “Hey, you guys. I’m going out for dawn patrol.”

“Have a good time, Honey,” I said. “Remember, my surgery’s today. Keep me in your prayers.”

“Duh, Dad. You’re always in my prayers. Gotta go!” Dawn patrol—beach slang for an early morning run—is a big thing around our surfing household. Bethany went out most mornings, searching for waves, often with her best friend, Alana, and Alana’s dad, Holt. I joined them whenever I could.

There’s something totally pristine and magical about the water at that time of day. The beach is empty, the wet sand shimmers in the rising sun. It’s just you, your board and the waves. There’s a little more of a danger of sharks in the water too, but if you surf in Hawaii, sharks are always a threat—remote, but real. The sea is their home, and you just have to respect that.

My wife, Cheri, and I work hard to make a good home for our three kids—Noah, 22, Timmy, 17, and Bethany. We are a close, loving family with God at the center. But at heart, we’re basically, well, beach bums.

I’ve been surfing since I was 12. It was my first love. Cheri’s too. We’ve got saltwater in our veins, and so do our kids. There’s always sand on the floor of our house on Kauai’s North Shore, and a couple of towels drying on the porch out back. Are we rich? Not in dollars and cents. But we’re more than blessed when it comes to the things that really count.

I would have joined Bethany that morning, getting in a quick run before I had to be at work, if it weren’t for my appointment at Wilcox Memorial Hospital. All those decades of crouching down low to shoot the barrel of a big wave had taken their toll on my right knee.

“You’re due for some scoping on your cartilage,” my friend David Rovinsky, an orthopedic surgeon, said. “We’ll get you fixed up and you’ll be back on your board in no time. Who knows, you might even be able to keep up with Bethany.”

Yeah, right. No one could keep up with my daughter. I put Bethany on my board and took her out into the waves when she wasn’t even a year old. I bought her a surfboard when she was six. Right off the bat, there was something different about how she surfed. Bethany got a look in her eye when we were out there in the water—a kind of gleam that said: I want to be good at this. I want to be the best.

I’m a “soul surfer.” I do it for the pure joy I feel when I drop my board into a curl, the wave roaring in my ears like a jet engine. It’s a spiritual joy, to be so close to the beauty and power God has made. Bethany felt that joy too when she was out in the water. She loved the Lord, and she loved to surf. But she also set goals. Bigger waves. Faster times. She couldn’t wait to enter surfing competitions. I started to understand that glint in her eye. The flash and fire of a champion.

At a little after seven that morning I lay on an operating table. I’d opted for a spinal so I could be awake to watch the procedure on a monitor overhead.

“Okay, Tom,” David said. “Ready to star in your own reality TV show?”

David marked the spot on my knee where he would go in with the scope. Just then the door to the operating room flew open. A doctor stuck his head in.

“Dr. Rovinsky, we gotta have this O.R. right now! We’ve got a shark attack victim.”

My mouth went dry. “Who?” I asked.

“A thirteen-year-old girl from the North Shore.”

My gaze met David’s. “Stay cool, Tom,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I tried to jump off the table. No go. My legs were numb from the anesthetic.

David came back. His face was pale. “It’s Bethany. We’re going to get you out of this O.R. and she’s going to take your place. We’ll do everything we can.”

A nurse wheeled me down the hall into a small recovery room and left me there, alone. The room was dark and still. Outside people raced toward the O.R., shouting instructions. If only I could get up and go to Bethany, hold her hand and pray. In my mind, I pictured Bethany in the water catching a wave.

My love for the ocean meant so much to me. To see my daughter love it too, to know she wanted to be the best surfer in the world, filled me with joy. But now that joy vanished. Was it my fault that she’d been attacked by a shark?

Stop. Cool it. Whatever happened out in the waves this morning, I had to remember that God had been there. He was here in the hospital too. With Bethany. With me. You’ve always watched over us, Lord. We’ve never come up against anything we couldn’t handle. Help us now.

The door opened. Noah. He walked in and threw his arms around me.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked.

“She’s outside, Dad. Everyone’s here.”

“Stay with them. I’ll be there as soon as I can get up and walk.”

Noah hadn’t said a word about Bethany, and I hadn’t asked. Something inside told me to stay calm, be patient. To trust in God—whose power was greater than my fear, greater than the sea, greater even than my love for my daughter.

A nurse came by. “Mr. Hamilton, can you wiggle your toes?” I tried. They barely moved. I slapped my bed in frustration.

“Hang on. Ten more minutes and you should be able to walk.”

Ten minutes later she came back. I got up and the nurse helped me hobble down the hall to another recovery room.

Bethany was lying in bed, her hair matted from the water, an oxygen mask over her face. Monitors beeped and blinked. My gaze followed an I.V. line down to her right arm. Bethany’s a righty, I caught myself thinking. They should put that thing in her left arm. All at once I realized what I was looking at. Where my daughter’s left arm had been there was just a mass of bandages.

The image was like a hard punch in the gut. But then Bethany turned her head and gave me a groggy look. A flood of relief and pure gratitude poured over me. My daughter was safe. Thank you, God.

“Hi, Dad,” Bethany whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been here the whole time, Honey,” I said. In fact, I had been right where I was meant to be all along.

Less than a month later, on one of those blindingly beautiful days that God saves for Hawaii, Bethany and I walked to the water. Under her right arm she carried her surfboard. She’d made a remarkable recovery, but I couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t too soon to try surfing again.

Bethany waded in, hopped on her board and started for the distant breakers. I swam out behind, ready to lend a hand. Half of surfing is in the paddling. Bethany’s explosive stroke used to give her an edge in competition. Could she still do it? With only her right arm? Could she still surf like the old Bethany?

A wave broke. Bethany lost her board. She grabbed it just as another wave slammed into her.

“Do you need a push?” I shouted.

“No, Dad,” she yelled back. “I need to do this myself.”

I should have known better than to ask.

Finally, we got out past the breakers. A big wave came toward us. Bethany paddled and kicked like crazy, struggling to get positioned right. With one push of her arm, she leapt to her feet. Her board shot out from under her and she fell into the water.

Another wave. She paddled and jumped to her feet. Wham. Another spill.

Lord, what if Bethany can’t do this?

A third wave rolled toward us. Bethany looked over at me. For a moment, our eyes met. That’s when I saw it. That flash of fire. It was still there. The wave rose up behind us, ready to break. Bethany leapt to her feet. She caught it perfectly. I watched her ride the wave all the way to the distant shore.

I had been wrong to doubt even for a moment. Nothing was going to hold my daughter back, not from what she truly loved. There was no “old” and “new” Bethany. Just the daughter I had always known. The one with the God-given spirit of a champion. And nothing, not even a shark, could ever change that.

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You need to know your priorities in life.

As head coach of the San Francisco 49ers, that’s probably the most important message I deliver to my players, especially the younger ones. Focus on what’s truly meaningful, I urge them.

I’m a guy who wears his emotions on his sleeve, so when I say these things, my players know I speak from the heart. What they don’t know is that I learned that lesson the hard way.

They weren’t there in Chicago the night of the banquet in my honor—one of the greatest moments of my career as a player, and the lowest point of my personal life.

I’d played my entire NFL career with the Chicago Bears. In the 1985 season I’d helped lead the team to a victory in the Super Bowl. Chicago fans always appreciated me, and this night in 1989 would make it official.

All the goals I’d set at age 12 had come true. I was being honored in my adopted city as the best defensive player in the league.

You can imagine what the night was like. People approached my table throughout the evening. “Congratulations, Mike,” they’d say, pushing between my wife, Kim, and me. They’d pay me a ton of compliments, and then turn to Kim and say, “Oh, you’re so lucky to be married to him.”

I figured, if ever I could make Kim proud, this would be the time. “This is our night, honey,” I said. Kim said nothing. We barely spoke through dinner. Driving home, Kim didn’t say a word. Her eyes said it all.

How did it ever get to this? I wondered.

Kim is the only woman I’ve ever loved. I thought back to the night we met—in the Baylor University library, when we were sophomores. I was already well known on campus as a football player.

But off the field I wasn’t nearly so confident. I’d seen Kim around, but couldn’t work up the nerve to approach her. I couldn’t believe it when she walked up to me. “Can you help me with my math?” she asked. I wasn’t very good at math, but I told her I was.

Afterward, I walked her back to her dorm. We talked about a million things—family, faith, our hopes, our dreams. Man, I thought, as I returned to my dorm, she doesn’t care that I’m a football player. Kim’s the first girl I’ve met where I can just be myself.

A few days later we went on our first date. I never did believe in beating around the bush. “I’m going to marry you someday,” I said.

The next few months were heaven. For me, at least. I felt lucky to be around Kim. I thought she felt the same. Turns out she didn’t. We were a couple, but we didn’t spend much time together. Not as much as she wanted. Most of my hours were spent on the field, or studying.

One day she cornered me. “Where do I stand with you?” she asked.

“I truly love you,” I said. But she wasn’t satisfied.

Where to begin? I took Kim to a campus coffee shop and found a quiet corner. I was 12 when my parents divorced. I took it hard. I lost all my desire, all my motivation. Even for football, which I loved. I just wanted to get by.

I told Kim I probably wouldn’t have cared about college, almost certainly wouldn’t have amounted to anything. Until my mother talked some sense into me.

“Nobody gets life handed to them,” Mom told me. “Life is getting beat up and getting back on your feet. It takes willpower and hard work and focus.”

I told Kim it was the greatest motivational speech I’d ever heard, better than any delivered by a football coach. It turned my attitude right around. I went straight to my room and wrote out a vision statement.

My goals, I decided, were to earn a college football scholarship, to become an All-American player, to earn my degree, to get drafted by an NFL team, to become an All-Pro player, to buy Mom a home, to play in the Super Bowl and to own my own business.

“I became a totally goal-oriented person,” I told Kim. Single-minded, you might say. A fitting description for a guy named Singletary.

“There’s something missing from your list, Mike,” she said, touching my hand. “Love.”

I told Kim the truth: Nothing was going to keep me from going for my goals, for getting where I wanted to go. That even included my relationships.

A lot of women would have said goodbye right then. But Kim knew the sincerity of my heart. Eventually, she believed, a wife and family would rate at the top of my list.

But it never did. There was always something else that demanded my attention.

In 1981 the Bears drafted me and I achieved one of my main goals. I thought things would get eas­ier. They didn’t. Most nights I fell asleep studying the team’s playbook. I was determined to be the best.

Kim moved back to Detroit, where her family lived. I can’t tell you how much I missed her. My heart ached. Did I ask her to move back and marry me? No. It was more important to establish myself in the league.

That took three years. I made All-Pro and felt things were falling into place for me. I called Kim. “I’m ready for you now,” I said. “I’m ready to give you the attention you deserve.” That summer we married. The next year we had the first of our seven children.

I loved being with Kim. But things kept cutting into my time with her and our children.

“Nothing has changed,” she complained one night. “You come home, and even at dinner your attention wanders. I know your mind is on football.”

I couldn’t argue. I was named team captain. I’d wolf down dinner then spend the rest of the night watching film of the next week’s opponent and phoning teammates to make sure they were doing the same.

I thought I was succeeding in life. The truth is, I wasn’t paying enough attention to the most important thing of all—Kim and the kids. But I didn’t realize how dissatisfied Kim was until that night at the banquet. Our marriage had reached a crisis.

Mike, you better figure this out, I thought. You better fix this.

Kim marched upstairs with barely a goodnight. I went into the den, grabbed a notebook and followed her into the bedroom. I felt like I did the night I met her: unsure of myself, deathly afraid I’d blow it. I love this woman. I can’t bear the idea of losing her.

I sat down on the edge of the bed with notebook in hand. I was going to make a list, just like I did when I was 12. “I need to know,” I said. “Am I the kind of husband that you need? How do I treat you? What am I doing that needs fixing?”

“Let me think about it for a while,” Kim said.

Every time I saw her over the next few days, I asked if she had an answer yet. I wanted to make my list, set my goals.

One morning at the kitchen table Kim laid it all out for me. My divided attention, leaving the hard work of parenting up to her, tending to my career first at the expense of all else. “You have to be here for us, with us. With me. This family has to come before football.”

It was pretty tough to hear—that a man so wrapped up in success could fail in his wife’s eyes. It humbled me. I promised to do better. But old habits die slow. Football is what defined me.

One night Kim and I got into a terrible argument. I can’t even remember what it was about. As usual, I didn’t quit until I had won. She marched upstairs, as frustrated as I’d ever seen her, and slammed the door. What have I actually won? I thought.

I sat down in the den. This time I reached for the Bible, thinking it would calm me. Flipping through the pages, I came across 1 Corinthians 13—the love chapter. Love is not boastful, not proud, not self-seeking. And it struck me—I was all of those things.

I kept reading. But love never fails. Love is patient, love is kind. It is not easily angered. I thought back again to my first date with Kim. She liked me for who I was, not because I was a football player. I didn’t have to prove anything to her except my love.

I snapped the Bible closed and took it upstairs with me. It was 2:00 a.m. Kim rolled over drowsily in bed.

“Kim, read this,” I said.

“You read it.”

I did. And when I finished I said to her, “You’re my number-one priority. You and the kids. From this day forward that’s how I’m going to love you.”

It took me five years of marriage, but I finally figured out what’s really important in life. Football is a big part of who I am. But not as big as my wife and kids, in terms of who I am off the field—a man of God and a family man.

By the way, it was Kim who suggested that I go into coaching 11 years after I retired as a player in 1992. I love being the head coach of the San Francisco 49ers. But if Kim told me to leave the 49ers tomorrow, that would be it. After all these years, I finally got my list straightened out.

All my life, it seems, folks have been telling me what I can’t do. In school, my learning disability kept me from picking up things as quickly as the other students. On the playground, I was the biggest, slowest kid. No one thought I could ever be an athlete—except for my mom and dad, who were always telling me that with prayer and persistence I could find the strength to do anything.

Maybe that’s why I was always pushing myself. I found a sport where my 286 pounds were an asset, wrestling, and I took it all the way to the Sydney Olympics in 2000. Naturally I was the underdog, but I made it to the final round and faced the best in the world, the legendary Russian Alexander Karelin, undefeated in 14 years of competition.

I had an older brother, Ronald, who died when I was eight. I’d win this medal for him. “Rulon doesn’t stand a chance,” the commentators said. “He might as well go home before he gets hurt.” I stood alone on the mat and looked Karelin in the eye. You can do it! I shouted at myself silently. And I did. I beat him. I came back to my parents farm in Afton, Wyoming, with a gold medal and the champion’s belt.

I’d reached the pinnacle, right? But no, I kept looking for new challenges, for other ways to show the world, “Look what I can do!” Afton, in Star Valley, where the Grand Tetons taper into the wooded peaks of the Salt River Range, was just the place for it. I gunned my Jeep around mountain curves, the closer to the edge the better. I raced my four-wheeler through the forests. I pulled stunts with my snowmobile on frozen lakes. I was always testing my limits—and maybe those of the people around me too.

Last February 14, I did my morning workout, then met up with my buddies Danny and Trent for a big lunch. It was about 25 degrees, and the winter sunlight sparkled on the deep snowdrifts that blanketed Afton. “Perfect day for snowmobiling,” I said, pushing my empty plate away. “We’ve got four more hours of sunlight. Who wants to have some fun?” We got our gear and by 1:30 we were roaring through the woods, taking deep gulps of cold air and letting civilization disappear behind us as we climbed into the mountains on our snowmobiles.

Around 3:30, Danny said he’d had enough. “Gotta go. Can’t miss my daughter’s basketball game. Call me later.” Trent mentioned heading in too. “Are you kidding, man?” I exploded. “We’ve still got to tackle Wagner Mountain!”

I revved my motor and shot uphill. The snowmobile slid and I braced with my feet. At the top, I looked over my shoulder for Trent. He was nowhere to be seen. I guess he gave up, I thought. I’ll just take a look around before I turn back. I’d never been up here before. I explored the ridge, loving the spectacular view of Star Valley spreading out below. I called Danny on my cell phone. “I’m on top of the world!” I shouted. “I’ll get Trent and head down in a few minutes. Let’s meet for dinner after the game.”

I swigged the last of my Gatorade and turned back. I found Trent’s tracks and followed them. It was 4:30 now. The sun had started to dip under the ridgeline, casting long shadows on the snow. Man, these are my tracks, I realized, not Trent’s! I took out my cell phone to call him, but now that I was off the peak, I couldn’t get a signal.

I wasn’t far from the Salt River, which winds down into Star Valley, carving a deep gully in the mountainside. I’ll bet he’s checking out the gully, I thought. Its slopes were awesome for snowmobiles. I drove down into the gully. No sign of Trent. The river flows back to Afton, I thought. Might as well follow it home. Trent’ll get back on his own.

I rode alongside the river. A couple places it had overflowed, making semi-frozen waterholes. I tried to cross one. The ice cracked and the rear end of the snowmobile sank underwater. I jumped out, feet soaked. No problem. I could get my snowmobile out. Those things weigh about 600 pounds, but I was strong. I pulled until the sweat was steaming off me. It didn’t budge. I broke off a big tree branch and levered the machine out, and started on my way again.

Another waterhole. Same thing happened, except I ended up soaked to my thighs. Better stick to the slope. It was pitch-dark by now, but I figured I was entering Star Valley. I was bound to see a road soon, then Afton would be a clear shot. I imagined a big steak dinner waiting with a tall glass of Mountain Dew. My stomach rumbled.

The river narrowed and the sides of the gully steepened to almost vertical. I can’t get up that—better just keep going. I inched forward, sending rocks and dirt tumbling under me. Suddenly my snowmobile skidded and slid straight down the slope into the river. I picked myself up, unhurt, but soaked, and stared at the snowmobile on its side in the water. This time I wouldn’t be hauling it out.

The wind cut straight through the fleece jacket I was wearing. Underneath, I had a sweatshirt, T-shirt and runner’s tights—fine for an afternoon ride, but no match for night in the wild. I shivered. I could hear the water sloshing in my boots, but I couldn’t feel my toes. I tried to take the boots off so I could wring out my socks. My fingers were so cold I couldn’t undo the laces. There was a grove of trees nearby. I struggled through waist-deep snow to take shelter.

Still no signal on my cell phone. The clock showed 7:30. Danny and Trent know I wouldn’t miss dinner. I’ll just wait here till they come back for me. I kicked the snow from under a tree and sat down. I felt sore and tired like I’d just wrestled 10 matches in a row. All I wanted to do was sleep. That’s your body shutting down, hypothermia taking over. “Stay awake, Rulon!” I shouted at myself.

I stood up, sat down, pinched myself. I checked my cell phone again: 8:30. What’s keeping those guys? I dozed off, then jerked awake. “Get up! Keep moving!” I yelled again, just like I did on the wrestling mat. But it was no use. One minute I’d be staring up at the bright stars overhead, the next I would wake up spread out on the snow.

My fleece and pants turned into solid ice, my hands froze in my gloves. The next time I checked my phone, it was after midnight. Still seven more hours of darkness! I tried to focus like I would with a tough opponent, like I had with the big Russian. You can do it, I thought. You can do anything, Rulon Gardner!

That’s what my mom and dad raised me to believe, that God hadn’t put me in this world to fail. That’s how I’d lived my life. When my teachers told me I wouldn’t graduate high school, I just worked harder. During my junior year, one teacher said, “Rulon, you may graduate from high school, but forget about college.” Oh, yeah? I thought. I’ll show you. It took me more than six years, but I got my degree from the University of Nebraska. Sports were the same way. I got to the Olympics on my own steam.

“I’m Rulon Gardner,” I shouted at the snowy treetops. “I can do anything!” But my voice was swallowed in the wind.

Around 2:00 a.m. I heard the faint sound of a motor. Trent and Danny! My voice was too weak to holler, so I whistled as loud as I could. The sound came closer, then faded.

They missed me, I thought. No one will find me now. For the first time that night, for the first time in my life maybe, I was scared. I’d worked so hard to get strong, gold-medal strong. I’d tested that strength time and again, often foolishly. Now my strength wasn’t enough. Not near enough. I laid my head against the rough trunk of the tree and closed my eyes. I can lick any opponent, I thought, but this? Lord, I am weak and you are strong. Infinitely strong. Help me.

I drifted off. I dreamed that I was standing in a warm room with Jesus. Beside him was my older brother, Ronald. They were both smiling. I took a step toward them. “Wait, I don’t want to be here,” I said, “not yet.” I woke with a start and struggled to my feet. Overhead the darkness was turning to gray. How much longer until morning? I shut my eyes to pray again. What came to me wasn’t words, but the face of Jesus, like in my dream. In his expression, there was such infinite strength that I felt warmed. My eyes flew open. “I can do this,” I said.

I stumbled back to the river and my sunken snowmobile. I was thirsty, so I bent down and put my lips to the rushing water. It was warmer than I expected, much warmer than the air, so I waded in. I let the water run through my frozen boots and lay back on a rock in the middle of the river, watching the stars melt into dawn. Was that the drone of an engine? I struggled up. An airplane was circling low overhead.

“Hey!” I croaked, waving my arms. The plane dropped something. A heavy coat landed on the snow. I got to my feet and started toward it. Then everything went black.

I awoke to a chopping sound. I was in a helicopter landing at a hospital in Idaho Falls. My core body temperature was 80 degrees, I heard the doctors say. They had to cut my boots off. I was shocked by the sight of my black, swollen feet. Eventually, I lost my middle toe. “You should have lost your feet,” my doctor told me. “In fact, you should have died. The windchill was forty below. Normally, a person can’t survive in those conditions. It’s a good thing you’re so strong.”

All my life I’ve worked hard to get smarter, faster, stronger. But it wasn’t bodily strength that got me through the long, freezing night in the mountains. It was strength from the One who showed me that night what he had been telling me in the classroom, on the wrestling mat…all my life, really: You can do it. The only strength that never fails.