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When People Are Depending on You Sometimes life will put you in a place where quitting makes sense. The body is tired. The mind is worn out. The circumstances are stacked against you. And if you are honest, you start thinking, “Maybe this is too much. Maybe I should cancel. Maybe I just do not have it in me.” That is exactly where I was. I spent the entire month of May fighting pneumonia. I was in and out, down and out, weak, drained, and trying to recover from something that took more out of me than most people will ever know. This golf tournament was put together in two weeks. Two weeks. That alone is amazing. And the truth is, I seriously considered canceling the whole thing. But then Tanja reminded me of something bigger than how I felt. She reminded me that there are people who rely on the services we provide. There are families depending on the help, hope, and support that come through this foundation. There are people who may never know all the behind-the-scenes struggles, but they are still counting on us to show up. That is when I remembered that purpose does not always wait until you feel strong. Sometimes purpose calls while you are still weak. The Bible reminds us in Galatians 6:9, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” It does not say we will never get tired. It does not say the work will always be easy. It says do not give up. Proverbs 3:27 says, “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.” That means when God gives you the ability, the influence, the people, the platform, or the opportunity to help somebody else, you cannot treat it like it does not matter. Because it matters. People depending on you is not always a burden. Sometimes it is a blessing. It is God trusting you with the chance to be someone else’s answered prayer. So today, I want everyone to understand just how amazing this moment is. This did not happen because everything was perfect. This happened because people cared. Tanja stepped up. Others stepped up. Volunteers, friends, supporters, sponsors, men and women with willing hearts all answered the call. And because of that, what almost got canceled became a testimony. When people are depending on you, you find strength you did not know you had. You discover that God can use tired hands, weak bodies, and heavy hearts to still do mighty things. So thank you for showing up. Thank you for standing with us. Thank you for proving that when God gives the assignment, He also sends the help. This was put together in two weeks, after a month of pneumonia, when I almost gave up. But God did not. And because He did not, neither did we. Thank you to everyone who answered the call for help. You are simply amazing!

If Football Is All You Get Out of It… You’re Missing the Boat During my waterboy days for the Hazlewood Golden Bears, our head coach Jackie Ferguson would say something that stuck with me long after the whistles stopped blowing: “If football is all you get out of it… then you’re missing the boat.” Back then, I thought he was just talking to the players. But the older I get, the more I realize he was preaching life with a playbook in his hand. Football has a way of squeezing life lessons into a short season. What most people experience over years, football throws at you in a few months. You learn success, failure, pain, teamwork, discipline, disappointment, sacrifice, preparation, accountability, leadership, humility, trust, perseverance, and how to get back up after getting knocked flat on your back. Football teaches you that everybody has a role. The quarterback may get the spotlight, but somebody has to block. Somebody has to snap the ball. Somebody has to run the route even when they know the ball is not coming their way. Life works the same way. You may not always be the one getting applause, but your assignment still matters. Football teaches you that practice matters. You do not just show up on game day and expect to win. What you do when nobody is cheering prepares you for the moments when everybody is watching. Football teaches you that you will get hit. Sometimes you will see it coming, and sometimes life will blindside you like a linebacker with bad intentions. But the lesson is not in the hit. The lesson is in whether you get up, shake it off, and line up for the next play. Football teaches you that the scoreboard does not always tell the whole story. You can lose a game and still gain character. You can win a game and still need correction. The real victory is becoming better because of what you went through. That is how life works. The things we go through are not always punishments. Sometimes they are preparation. Sometimes today’s struggle is tomorrow’s strength. Sometimes the setback is really a setup for what God is getting ready to do next. But if all you see is what is happening in the moment, you will miss the lesson. If all you see is the pain, you will miss the purpose. If all you see is the obstacle, you will miss the opportunity. Coach Ferguson was right. If football is all you get out of it, you’re missing the boat. And if all you get out of life is what is happening right now, you’re missing the boat too. Every season is teaching you something. Every challenge is shaping you. Every hard place is preparing you for what is next. So don’t just go through it. Grow through it.

When Grace Cleans What Complaining Clouds Sometimes the greatest battles in life don’t happen in stadiums, hospitals, or stormy seasons. Sometimes they happen right inside our hearts when we are tempted to complain about the very people God is using to bless us. I have learned that dependence can be humbling. When you cannot do for yourself what you once did with ease, you start seeing life differently. You notice every act of care, every sacrifice, every tired hand, every quiet moment when somebody keeps showing up even when they are worn out. But I have also learned something else: even when we are blessed, we can still be difficult. It is easy to focus on what someone missed instead of what they managed. Easy to point out what is dusty instead of thanking God someone cared enough to clean. Easy to complain about the smell of the process while forgetting that love is often working in the room. Grace has a way of cleaning more than floors. It cleans attitudes. It wipes down pride. It sweeps away entitlement. It mops up selfishness. And sometimes, God has to turn the fan of conviction on high so we can breathe in gratitude again. Philippians 2:14 says, “Do everything without grumbling or arguing.” That verse does not leave much wiggle room. It does not say complain only when you are tired, sick, frustrated, or think you are being funny. It says do everything without grumbling. That does not mean we will always get it right. I know I do not. But it does mean we should recognize love when it shows up, even when it comes wearing gloves, holding a mop, looking tired, and having every reason to walk away but choosing to stay. So today, I want to encourage somebody: do not let irritation make you overlook intercession. Do not let frustration blind you to faithfulness. Thank God for the people who keep serving, caring, cleaning, helping, praying, and standing beside you. Because sometimes the biggest miracle is not that God changes our situation. Sometimes the miracle is that He gives us someone willing to walk through it with us. Devotional by Kerry Goode

There are certain moments in a man’s life when he must decide who he really is. A helper? A quiet observer? A peaceful husband? Or a full-blown Richard Cranium. I chose violence. Not the physical kind—no, no, no—the petty, irritating, professional‑grade Richard Cranium kind. The girls were cleaning, which already had me suspicious because in my house, cleaning only happens when somebody important is coming over. So naturally, I had to stir the pot. I text the whole crew: “Who coming over? Y’all don’t clean like this unless somebody’s on the way.” Nothing. Not even a pity thumbs‑up. So I doubled down. “I’m surprised the pictures on the wall haven’t fallen. There’s so much dust on them they probably think they’re in storage.” Still nothing. I’m thinking, Oh, so y’all ignoring me today? Bet. Finally, my wife Tanja breaks and hits me with: “Leave us alone. My daughter Ariel says “Go to bed.” Now, that should have been my warning. But when a man is committed to foolishness, wisdom can ring the doorbell all day long and he’ll still pretend nobody’s home. Then Tanja sent another message: “Well, if it’s not like you want it, then hire a maid to come clean up.” Ohhhhhhh! Now I knew I had hit a nerve. So I sent one more text to everybody: “Somebody switch my breathing machine and give this machine a rest. I’m sure it’s tired of being the only one working around here. That machine is just like me. Y’all trying to kill me!” Silence. Again. Then here comes Ariel, walking in like a ninja with an attitude. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t blink. She just switches the machines, sets my breathing machine on the floor, and walks out like she’s clocking out of a shift she didn’t want. I’m lying there thinking, Okay… that felt personal.. Then in comes Tanja with the mop. Now, let me be clear. I am depending on this breathing machine like it is the last Uber out of Egypt. Tanja starts mopping the room, and she mops all around my only source of air without moving it. The machine is sitting on the floor, inhaling mop fumes like it’s at a chemical warfare convention. Less than five minutes later, those fumes came marching through my ventilator like they had VIP access. I’m lying there thinking, “Lord, I was only joking. I didn’t know the punishment for being a Richard Cranium was lemon-fresh suffocation.” Thank God Tanja finally come back, sees me looking like a smoked turkey, and jumps into action—suctioning, air, fans, the whole emergency rescue package. She turns on the ceiling fan, the portable fan, probably considered opening a window and letting the Holy Spirit blow through. And once I could finally breathe again, I knew I should probably be quiet. But I couldn’t help myself. I looked at them, gathered my strength, and said the only thing a man in my position could say: “Y’all tryin’ to kill me.” The moral of the story is simple: never irritate women who are cleaning. They may not take the bait… But they might mop around your oxygen.

“When the Mirror Laughs Back” “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” - 2 Corinthians 4:16 Sometimes life has a way of humbling you in the funniest ways. You think you’re doing alright — surviving, pushing through, holding on — and then one day you catch a glimpse of yourself and say, “Lord, who is THAT?” But here’s the truth: every season that strips something away is also shaping something new. When the body changes, when the mirror surprises you, when the reflection doesn’t match the memory — that’s not loss, that’s transformation. God doesn’t just heal; He rebuilds. And sometimes the rebuilding starts with laughter. I’ve learned that joy is a survival skill. You can cry about what’s gone, or you can laugh your way into what’s next. Humor doesn’t deny the pain — it declares victory over it. It says, “I’m still here, and I still have something to smile about.” When your strength fades, when your body feels foreign, when your confidence wobbles — remember this: God’s image in you never shrinks. The spirit doesn’t lose weight. The heart doesn’t deflate. The soul doesn’t go on a diet. So laugh at the mirror. Laugh at the changes. Laugh at the head that looks too big for the body. Because laughter is proof that you’re still fighting, still breathing, still believing. And when people see you, let them see more than recovery — let them see resilience. Let them see a testimony wrapped in humor. Let them see that even when life knocks you down, you can rise up smiling, saying, “I may look different, but I’m still God’s masterpiece.” Prayer: Lord, thank You for teaching me to laugh through the lessons. Help me see Your glory even in the mirror’s surprises. Remind me that transformation is holy work — and joy is my strength. Amen.

During my last battle with pneumonia, I lost a lot of weight. Now, I knew I had been sick. I knew I wasn’t exactly walking around looking like Mr. Universe. But I did not know just how much weight had packed up, changed its address, and left me without even saying goodbye. I found out the hard way. I saw a picture of myself holding my granddaughter… who, according to her parents, does not exist, has never existed, and will not exist until she’s at least 14 with a verified Instagram account. Everybody’s doing the celebrity baby‑face blackout now. I can’t even show off my FIRST grandchild. I’m out here like, “Look y’all, I promise she’s real,” and the parents are like, “No she’s not.” So fine. I’ll pretend she’s imaginary. I’ll just say I was holding a mysterious baby‑shaped blur that may or may not be related to me. But let me tell you what I saw in that picture. I saw ME… looking like I had just escaped from a protein‑free witness protection program. I looked like one of those folks who took that new weight‑loss drug where the body shrinks down to a fun‑size version of itself but the head refuses to participate. My head was sitting up there like it had its own zip code. I looked like a bobblehead that had been through something emotional. I looked like an Al Sharpton before-and-after picture got into a fight with a scarecrow. And lost. And listen — I didn’t want NOBODY seeing that picture. Not a soul. I said, “Delete it, crop it, blur it, put an emoji over my whole body, I don’t care.” Because I looked like a man who had been living off ice chips and hope. Everybody else was probably looking at the sweet moment between grandfather and grandchild. I was looking at myself thinking, “Somebody get this man a sandwich, a milkshake, two pork chops, and a witness protection program.” At this point, y’all will probably see my granddaughter Laila’s face before you see another real picture of me. And if her parents get mad because I said her name, let me apologize now. This new generation is a stone-cold trip. Back in our day, grandparents showed baby pictures to everybody: family, friends, strangers, the mailman, and people standing too long in the grocery line. But now we need permission, clearance, passwords, and possibly a retinal scan. So until I gain some weight back, just know this: the baby is beautiful, the grandfather is grateful, and the pictures are classified. Because right now, Laila may be hidden for privacy… But I’m hidden for public safety.

“The Power of Human Touch” A Devotional by Kerry Goode There’s a kind of healing that doesn’t come from medicine—it comes from the warmth of another person’s hand. The human touch carries something divine, something that reminds us we’re still connected to life, to love, and to God Himself. When we’re hurting, isolated, or weary, a simple touch can speak louder than words. It says, “You’re not forgotten.” It says, “You’re still here.” And sometimes, it says, “God hasn’t let go of you.” Jesus understood this better than anyone. He didn’t just speak healing—He reached out and touched the sick, the broken, and the lonely. His hands carried compassion, and His touch carried power. You don’t have to be a professional to bring that kind of healing. Everyday hands can do holy work. A hug, a pat on the shoulder, a gentle squeeze—these are small acts that carry eternal meaning. So today, be someone’s reminder that they’re not alone. Offer your touch, your presence, your kindness. Because when you do, you’re not just comforting a person—you’re extending the hands of Christ Himself. “And Jesus reached out His hand and touched him, saying, ‘I am willing; be clean.’” — Matthew 8:3

Today I finally got my mani-pedi, and just like I predicted, my nail technician, Anna, went completely off the deep end when she saw my nails. Anna is Vietnamese, barely four feet tall, and built like a travel-size bottle of lotion. But don’t let that fool you. That woman has hands stronger than a prison door and a grip that could make a grown man confess to crimes he only thought about. The moment she saw my nails, she stopped, stared, and said in her broken Vietnamese English, “Ohhhh noooo, Mistah Kerry… yo’ nail long like eagle try to catch fish.” Then she picked up one finger and said, “Dis one not nail. Dis weapon. TSA no let you fly wit dis.” I tried to explain that I had pneumonia, hospital visits, and all kinds of life going on. Anna wasn’t hearing it. She said, “No excuse! Nail grow like bamboo in rain. Next time you call me before you become Wolverine!” By the time she got to my toes, she leaned back and took a deep breath. But let me tell you, the best part of my mani-pedi is not the clipping, polishing, or Anna fussing at me like I personally offended the entire nail industry. The greatest part is the bonus massage she sneaks in like she’s dealing contraband relaxation. Now understand, Anna is about four feet tall standing on a phone book. Four feet with her hair teased up. Four feet if she inhales deeply and believes in herself. But those hands? I don’t know what Vietnamese village she trained in, but I’m convinced she was raised by monks who cracked coconuts with their fingertips. I dare ANY man—linebacker, powerlifter, Navy SEAL—to ask for her deep‑tissue massage. Go ahead. Be brave. Sit in that chair talking about, “I can handle pressure.” Five minutes later, you’ll be calling your mama, your pastor, and Blue Cross Blue Shield. Anna pressed one spot on my shoulder and I saw my childhood, my first football injury, and three unpaid bills from 1997. I’m thinking, “Anna, what was that?” She said, “Dat tension.” I said to myself, “No, ma’am. That was a demon leaving my rotator cuff.” But here’s the truth wrapped inside the comedy: I recommend some type of massage for anybody with ALS, anybody paralyzed, bedridden, hurting, lonely, or simply needing to feel human touch. It doesn’t have to be professional. Everyday hands will do. Because for many of us, most touch is medical. Moving us. Lifting us. Cleaning us. Adjusting tubes. Checking vitals. But a caring touch says, “You are still a person, not just a patient.” One gentle hand can preach a sermon without opening a Bible. And speaking of the Bible, Jesus touched folks and they got healed. Anna touched me and I almost asked for an offering plate. As the Good Book says (well… should say): “Blessed are the hands that rubbeth the shoulders, for they bringeth the peace that passeth all understanding.” Now if you’ll excuse me while I go have a cigarette—and I don’t even smoke. Yes, it felt that good. ALS family, you will thank me. Matter of fact, everybody will thank me. Because sometimes the strongest medicine is not in a bottle. Sometimes it’s in four-foot Anna’s hands.

I need to say something that’s been sitting on my chest for a long time, and I’m saying it with love, but also with truth. I’ve been living with a terminal illness for twelve years. Twelve years of fighting, adjusting, losing pieces of myself, gaining perspective, and learning who really walks with me when life gets heavy. And in all that time, I’ve noticed something that hurts more than the diagnosis itself. There are people I haven’t seen in years — friends, family, folks I grew up with, people who once said they loved me — and yet I know, without a doubt, that some of those same people will show up at my funeral. They’ll come dressed in black. They’ll cry. They’ll hug each other. They’ll talk about “how much I meant to them.” They’ll say they wish they had more time. They’ll stand over my body and say goodbye. But here’s the truth: Saying goodbye to me when I’m gone doesn’t mean much if you couldn’t show up while I was still here. I’m not saying this to shame anybody. I’m saying it because it’s real. When you’re sick, people disappear. Not because they don’t care, but because sickness makes them uncomfortable. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know how to act. They don’t want to face the reality that life is fragile. But funerals? Funerals are easy. There’s a program. There’s a script. There’s no responsibility, no awkwardness, no vulnerability. Just a quick appearance to feel like you did your part. But presence is love, and absence is an answer. I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I’m still laughing. I’m still fighting. I’m still needing the people who say they love me. If you want to honor me, don’t wait until I’m lying still and silent. Honor me now — while I can hear your voice, see your face, feel your presence, and know that I mattered to you while I was alive. I don’t need a crowd at my funeral. I need connection while I’m living. And to the ones who have shown up — consistently, quietly, faithfully — you are the reason I’ve made it these twelve years. You are the ones who deserve the flowers, the credit, the love, and the legacy. To everyone else: If you want to say goodbye someday, start by saying hello now.

When God Trims What We Let Grow Sometimes life gets so heavy that we stop paying attention to the little things. Pain, sickness, hospital stays, setbacks, and exhaustion can take up so much room that we forget about maintenance. Not just physical maintenance, but spiritual maintenance. I have learned that if something is left unattended long enough, it will grow. Worry grows. Fear grows. Frustration grows. Bitterness grows. Doubt grows. And before you know it, what started as a small issue becomes something oversized, uncomfortable, and hard to ignore. That is why we need God to trim us. The Bible says in John 15 that God is the gardener, and He prunes what is fruitful so it can bear even more fruit. Pruning does not always feel good. Sometimes God has to cut away pride, impatience, anger, fear, and everything else that keeps us from looking like Him. But every cut from God’s hand has purpose. He never removes anything from us to harm us. He removes what is getting in the way of who He is calling us to become. ALS has taken a lot from my body, but it has also shown me how much I need daily spiritual care. I cannot afford to let my faith go unattended. I need prayer. I need Scripture. I need grace. I need people who love me enough to help me stay encouraged. And most of all, I need God to keep shaping my heart. Maybe today you have allowed worry, disappointment, anger, or fear to grow too long. Do not be ashamed. Bring it to God. Let Him trim what is unhealthy. Let Him restore what is broken. Let Him shape what still has purpose. You may be overdue for some spiritual maintenance, but you are not too far gone for God’s grace. Prayer: Lord, trim away anything in me that does not honor You. Help me grow in faith, patience, peace, and love. Shape me into who You created me to be. Amen. By Kerry Goode

Y’all come in close because I need to confess something before the CDC shows up at my door with a hazmat team. After spending the entire month of May going in and out of the hospital and fighting pneumonia at home, I missed something very important in my life. Not a doctor’s appointment. Not a medication refill. Not even Alabama football news. I missed my bi-weekly mani-pedi. And let me tell you something… my nails did not wait on me. My nails grow so fast some of you ladies would be jealous, while others would be sitting across the room clutching your purse like, “Lord, what is going on with Brother Kerry’s hands?” At this point, I’m not sure whether I need a nail tech, a blacksmith, or somebody from Animal Control. And let’s not talk about my feet. My toes look like the feet of a velociraptor that got kicked out of Jurassic Park for scratching up the furniture. If one of my feet accidentally slides across the floor, it sounds like somebody dragging a rake across concrete. Tanja better be glad I’m paralyzed, because if I still moved in my sleep, I could cut her leg off in the middle of the night and wake up saying, “Baby, why you limping?” The worst part is, I know my Vietnamese nail tech Anna is going to lose her mind when she sees me. She’s going to look at my hands, look at my feet, shake her head, and say, “Kerry… yo nail lone. I need saw.” Not clippers. Not a file. A saw. She may have to clock in early, call for backup, and put on safety goggles. I wouldn’t be surprised if she brings out a chainsaw and says, “You sit still. This take while.” And thank God I don’t have to wipe my own butt right now, because with these nails? One wrong angle and I’d give myself a surprise colonoscopy. I’d be in the ER like, “Doc, I sneezed and accidentally performed surgery.” ALS may have taken a lot from me, but apparently it did not take my ability to grow championship-level claws. I missed one month of nail care, and now I’m out here looking like I could open cans, climb trees, and defend Gotham City. So if you see me soon and my hands look dangerous, don’t panic. Just pray for Anna. Because when she sees these nails, she may quit the nail business and go into logging.

When I was diagnosed with ALS, the first question that came out of my heart was, “Why me?” Not because I thought I was better than anybody else. Not because I believed hardship should skip my address. But because I was tired. I had been fighting uphill all my life. “Why me?” came from a man who was as healthy as I had ever been in my adult life. “Why me?” came from a man who had already survived career-ending knee surgery. It came from a man who had fought through two bankruptcies because my body, the very thing I depended on, had broken down before. People looked at what I had achieved and called me successful. They saw the football career, the awards, the accomplishments, the name, the jersey, the memories. But they didn’t see the private battle behind it all. They didn’t see a man who never really got the chance to enjoy much of it because I was always fighting my own body. My body was my meal ticket. My body was how I made a living. My body was how people knew me. So when ALS started taking it away, it felt like it was taking me away too. For months, I struggled to accept it. I wrestled with God. I wrestled with my thoughts. I wrestled with the unfairness of it all. I kept thinking, “Lord, I just can’t get a break.” But somewhere in that painful wrestling match, God began to show me something I had missed for most of my life. I am not my body. My body is only the house where my spirit and soul live. And even though ALS has taken so much of that house, it has not taken the real me. ALS can take my muscles. It can take my movement. It can take my voice. It can take my ability to run, walk, eat, and speak. But it cannot touch my mind. It cannot touch my heart. It cannot touch my soul. And those are the parts of me that matter most. So I had to make a decision. I could stay stuck asking “Why me?” or I could take control of what ALS could not reach. My attitude. My faith. My spirit. My response. That’s when “Why me?” became “Try me.” Try my faith. Try my courage. Try my hope. Try my will to keep showing up. Try my belief that God can still use a man who cannot move, cannot speak, and cannot fight the way he used to. Because we all know how this life ends. None of us are getting out of here alive. But as for me? I’m not going out like a punk. I’m going out with faith in my heart, fire in my soul, and God’s grace carrying me every step of the way.

Dental hygiene has always been a top priority of mine. I’m talking serious business. Some folks collected trophies, rings, and awards. I collected compliments on my teeth. My teeth were so white they didn’t need whitening strips, no veneers, no fancy dentist lasers, blue-light machines, or some dentist with goggles saying, “This may tingle a little.” No, sir. Mine came straight from God’s heavenly dental department. The angels must have said, “Lord, Kerry needs something bright enough to guide ships back to shore.” And God said, “Give him the deluxe pearl package.” For years, I smiled like I had headlights in my mouth. You could’ve turned off the power at Bryant-Denny Stadium, and I could’ve stood at midfield grinning until the game was over. But this weekend, I attended an event, and folks kept coming up wanting pictures with “the man on his deathbed,” which is already wild because I’m sitting there thinking, “I’m literally alive, people. Present. Breathing. Hello.”. Now, let me explain something. These days, I don’t get to check myself in the mirror like I used to. Tanja dresses me, fixes me up, wipes me down, adjusts this, tucks that, straightens the other, and sends me out into the world. So when someone asked to take a selfie, I said sure — because why not? I’m still cute. So I gave them the old Kerry Goode smile. Big mistake. When that camera flipped around… Lord have mercy. I saw something so terrifying I almost left my own body. I thought a rapper had photobombed me. Not just any rapper — Lil Wayne himself. My teeth were so yellow I thought I had a full set of gold grills. I said, “Who is this man? Why is he in my selfie? And why does he look like me?” I wanted to cry. I wanted to call 911 and report a dental emergency. I wanted to ask God if He had recalled my warranty. But I couldn’t even cry properly because I was too busy trying to hide my teeth from the camera like they were fugitives on America’s Most Wanted. For the rest of the evening, I shut my mouth tighter than a jar of pickles at a church picnic. I gave everybody what I now call the snaggled-tooth smile. Lips closed. Cheeks tight. Eyes doing all the work. People said, “Kerry, smile!” I was thinking, “I am smiling. This is the economy package.” Somebody probably thought I was being humble. No. I was protecting the public from glare damage of a different kind. But later, I had to sit with it. ALS has a way of taking pieces of you and daring you to still show up. Every week, it feels like I have to lay down another piece of pride and accept who I am now, not who I used to be. The meds, the changes, the surprises that pop up like unwanted pop‑up ads. And now I’ve got to smile anyway — not because my teeth are perfect, but because somebody coming behind me needs to know it’s okay. Even if my teeth look like they’ve been marinated in Mountain Dew and mustard‑tinted these days. Go ahead... take the picture. Just don’t use flash.I don’t won’t to bring down any airplanes.

When Pride Has to Bow “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.”— James 4:10 I have learned that some of the hardest battles in life are not always fought in hospitals, therapy rooms, or doctor’s offices. Sometimes the battle happens quietly inside your own heart, when you realize something else about you has changed. ALS has a way of introducing you to yourself over and over again. Just when you think you have accepted one loss, here comes another one knocking on the door saying, “Don’t get too comfortable.” The body changes. The voice changes. The routine changes. The reflection changes. And every time, pride has to take another seat. I used to think strength was holding on to the image of who I was. The athlete. The strong man. The confident man. The man who could walk into a room and feel like himself. But now I am learning that real strength is not pretending nothing has changed. Real strength is admitting, “This hurts,” and still choosing to show up. There are moments when I want to hide. Moments when I want to close my mouth, close my heart, and protect what little pride I have left. But then God reminds me that my purpose was never built on my appearance. My value was never in my body. My witness was never in looking perfect. It was always in letting His light shine through whatever was left. Somebody coming behind me needs to know that it is okay to be different now. It is okay to grieve what ALS has taken. It is okay to miss the old you. But don’t let shame steal the courage it took for you to survive. Smile anyway. Not because everything feels good. Not because you like every change. But because your smile may give somebody else permission to stop hiding. God can use the part of you that you are most embarrassed about to encourage somebody else who feels broken, ashamed, or afraid. I may be a shadow of my former self, but even a shadow proves there is still light nearby. And as long as God keeps giving me breath, purpose, and another day, I will keep showing up. Changed, yes. Finished, no.

In a Black Baptist church — especially a place like First Missionary Baptist in Town Creek — the mourner’s bench or moaning bench as they say in the deep south ain’t just a bench. It’s church jail. It’s where the church sends you when they think the Lord is calling you but you ain’t picked up the phone yet. You sit there “moaning,” “tarrying,” and “seeking,” while the Mothers of the Church circle you like spiritual midwives waiting on you to be born again. Now… enter the Three Amigos: me, Joseph, and Ross. We were 11 years old, full of sugar, sin, and stupidity — the perfect combination. Everybody in town had decided it was “our time” to get saved. And somehow, all three of us got sentenced at the same time. Ross’s mama made him do it. My grandmother “strongly persuaded” me — which in Southern Black grandparent language means I didn’t have a choice. And Joseph? He just came along because we were his ride‑or‑die fools. But there was one problem: REVIVAL WEEK AND LITTLE LEAGUE FOOTBALL STARTED AT THE SAME TIME. And if you were on the moanin’ bench, you couldn’t do NOTHING. No football. No outside. No fun. Just moaning, praying, sweating, and hoping the Holy Ghost would hurry up and tap you on the shoulder. So I gathered the boys on Sunday after church — first night of revival — and laid out the plan like a defensive coordinator: Fellas, we do this Monday night and we’ll be back at football practice Tuesday. They looked at me like I had lost my mind. Joseph said that looked suspicious. Ross agreed. So we compromised on Wednesday — the holiest night for foolishness. Wednesday night came. The church was rocking. The choir washumming. The deacons were praying. and the preacher was working harder than a man trying to crank a lawn mower with bad gas. Meanwhile, the three of us were sitting on the moaning bench giving each other signals like we were stealing third base. Who going first? Not me. You go. No, you go. Then suddenly — BOOM! Ross fell out on the floor like somebody shot him in the back with a spiritual sniper rifle. Right on cue, Joseph jumped up and started shouting like he had just been personally tackled by the Holy Ghost. And me? I tried. Lord knows I tried. But I stood up with my head down, shoulders shaking, tears running down my face — not from conviction, but from trying not to laugh. The elders wrapped their arms around us like we were three prodigal sons returning home from Vietnam. The next day we met up to clown each other… And that’s when we learned the tragic truth: WE COULDN’T GO TO FOOTBALL PRACTICE UNTIL REVIVAL WAS OVER. So there we sat the rest of the week, saved, trapped, and mad. We watched everybody else get full of the Holy Ghost, nudging each other and laughing under our breath like three junior demons on church probation. Later in life, those three delinquents learned the truth. All we had to do was confess with our mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts. But I must admit, every time I think about Ross falling out, Joseph shouting, and me crying laughing while the elders thought Heaven had opened, I still thank God for grace. Because if salvation had depended on acting skills, Ross would’ve been a preacher, Joseph would’ve had a traveling ministry, and I would’ve been banned from the moaning bench for life.

When Grace Meets Us at the Bench I have learned that God can work with a sincere heart, and He can also work with a confused one. Sometimes we come to Him with perfect words, steady faith, and tears of repentance. Other times, we come nervous, distracted, immature, embarrassed, or pushed forward by somebody who loves us enough to make us face what we’ve been avoiding. But here is the good news: God is not limited by the way we arrive. There are moments in life when we do not fully understand what God is doing. We may not know the right scripture, the right prayer, or the right posture. We may even be more concerned about what we are missing than what God is offering. But grace has a way of meeting us right where we are. The mourner’s bench reminds me that all of us need a place where pride gets quiet, excuses run out, and the soul finally has to tell the truth. It is not about performance. It is not about who cries the loudest, prays the prettiest, or looks the most spiritual. It is about surrender. Romans 10:9 says that if we confess with our mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in our heart that God raised Him from the dead, we will be saved. That means salvation is not earned by drama, fear, pressure, or church tradition. It is received by faith. Looking back, I thank God for the people who cared enough to point me toward Him, even when I did not understand the weight of the moment. I thank God for mothers, grandmothers, deacons, preachers, and praying people who believed grace could reach us before maturity caught up with us. Maybe you feel like you do not have it all together. Maybe your faith journey has been messy. Mine has too. But grace does not wait for us to become polished. Grace reaches into our confusion, our laughter, our fear, our weakness, and our unfinished places. Come as you are. God already knows who you are. And He still calls you worth saving. By Kerry Goode

DEVOTIONAL WHEN GOD SEES WHAT WE CAN’T There comes a point in life when the things we used to control slip right out of our hands. Strength fades. Abilities change. The plans we once trusted don’t fit the new reality. And if we’re honest, that loss of control can shake us more than anything else. But here’s the truth God keeps teaching me: Just because I can’t watch over everything anymore doesn’t mean everything is unprotected. We serve a God who sees what we can’t, hears what we miss, and guards what we love even when we’re asleep, overwhelmed, or flat-out unable to move. Nothing sneaks past Him. Nothing catches Him off guard. Nothing arrives at our door without Him knowing it long before we do. Losing control doesn’t mean losing safety. It means shifting trust. I used to think protection came from my preparation — my plans, my systems, my readiness for every scenario. But God keeps reminding me that real security comes from His presence, not my performance. Psalm 121 says, “He who watches over you will neither slumber nor sleep.” That means while I’m lying there powerless, He’s wide awake. While others miss the signs, He doesn’t. While I worry about what could happen, He already knows what will — and He’s already handled it. Sometimes the things we fear turn out to be nothing at all. Other times, the things we fear never even make it to our door because God blocked them before they got close. And every now and then, He lets us see just enough to remind us that He’s still in charge. So today, take a breath. Release the illusion of control. Rest in the One who actually has it. Because even when we can’t move, can’t respond, or can’t do what we used to do… God is still the best security system we’ll ever have.

Amazon the Burglar When I was healthy, I believed in having a plan for everything. A plan for practice. A plan for the game. A plan for being ahead. And like Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant said, a plan for being behind 20–0 at halftime, with your quarterback hurt, the phones dead, it raining cats and dogs, and no rain gear because the equipment man left it at home. That was me. I had a plan if somebody came through the front door. I had a plan if somebody came through the back door. I had a plan if somebody tried a window, chimney, garage, doggy door, or showed up disguised as Publisher’s Clearing House. But when ALS paralyzed my body, one of the hardest things it took from me was my ability to protect my house. So I did what any former football player, father, husband, and self-appointed head of household security would do. I turned my house into Fort Knox with throw pillows. I put cameras everywhere. Alarms everywhere. Motion lights everywhere. Ring cameras on every door. I had Alexa connected to the whole system like she was my personal night-shift security guard. The problem was not the system. The problem was my family. Especially the girls. Those alarms could say, “There is a man at the front door carrying a chainsaw, a ski mask, and your good silverware,” and my girls would not look up from their phones unless TikTok sent a warning first. Last night around 2 a.m., I finally shut everything down and tried to sleep. At 3 a.m., Alexa said, “I detected someone at the front door.” Nobody moved. Not Tanja. Not the girls. Not a pinky toe. Not an eyelash. Nothing. I’m laying there paralyzed, eyes wide open, thinking, “Well, this is it. This is how we go out. Robbed in surround sound.” At 4 a.m., Alexa said it again. “I detected someone at the front door.” Still nobody moved. At this point, I’m trying to yell, but ALS has taken my voice, so all I could do was lay there and mentally file an insurance claim. At 5 a.m., Alexa made her third announcement. Now I’m thinking, “Should I call everybody and let them know the house is being broken into? Or should I just lay here and watch them take everything?” Finally, around 8 a.m., Eddie shows up. And what does he find? Boxes. Stacked from the floor to the top of the porch. Completely blocking the door like Amazon was trying to build a distribution center. Turns out the only burglar was Jeff Bezos. And Alexa wasn’t warning me about danger. She was announcing that Amazon had robbed me legally. Now I’ve got to have a serious talk with this woman lying next to me, mouth wide open, snoring like a chainsaw fighting a leaf blower in a thunderstorm.

When Grace Makes Room at the Table Bible Verse: “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” — Ephesians 4:2 One thing I’ve learned on this ALS journey is that life teaches you to listen before you judge. When you can’t speak like you used to, you hear people differently. You notice the laughter, the complaints, the opinions, the misunderstandings, and the love hiding underneath all the noise. Family can be loud. People can be different. Some folks don’t think like you, eat like you, worship like you, vote like you, or handle life like you. But that doesn’t mean they don’t belong at the table. Sometimes we make the mistake of thinking unity means everybody has to agree. But real love makes room for differences. Real grace lets people be themselves without kicking them out of your heart. Every family, every church, every community has characters. Some will test your patience. Some will make you laugh. Some will make you pray under your breath. But God still calls us to love. I have learned to thank God for what others may take for granted: one more laugh, one more hug, one more conversation, one more gathering, one more chance to be surrounded by people who may not be perfect, but are still precious. When you are fighting for your life, you stop wasting time over small stuff. You realize the blessing is not always in the perfect moment. Sometimes the blessing is in the messy, noisy, unpredictable moment where love still shows up. So today, don’t let pride, jealousy, offense, or old wounds make you miss the gift of togetherness. Forgive quicker. Laugh louder. Love deeper. Appreciate the people God has placed in your life. Because one day, you may not remember what went wrong. You’ll remember who was there. Prayer: Lord, help me love people with patience, grace, and gratitude. Teach me to make room at the table, even when life gets messy. Amen.

The other day I overheard Tanja and my CNA Eddie talking about a family reunion where the host put a whole pig in the ground. Now, to my Southern brothers and sisters — and my Hawaiian cousins — your mouth just started watering. You heard “pig in the ground” and immediately started looking for a paper plate, barbecue sauce, hot sauce, and somebody’s auntie’s baked beans. But everybody ain’t built like that. Tanja my Steel Magnolia walked past the buffet, saw that whole pig head looking back at her, and said, “I’m sorry… I can’t eat anything that's looking back at me .” Then Eddie my New Jersey transplant walked up, stared at the hog like it owed him money, and said, “Is there a vegetarian option?” Somebody pointed to the coleslaw. The thought of eating out of an animal’s carcuss didn’t sit well with him. But everybody ain’t raised the same. After living in every region of this country, I’ve learned every place has food that locals defend like it came down from Mount Sinai while visitors stand there whispering, “What in the world are y’all doing?” Up North, they got scrapple. That’s pork parts pressed into a loaf like somebody swept the butcher shop floor and said, “Breakfast is served!” In New Jersey, they argue over whether it’s pork roll or Taylor Ham like the Supreme Court about to hand down a ruling. In the Midwest, they got cheese curds. Folks bite into them and say, “Listen to the squeak.” I’m sorry, but I don’t want my cheese talking back. In New England, they put clams on pizza. Somewhere in Italy, somebody’s grandmother just passed out in a vineyard. Out West, somebody will hand you a kale smoothie and say, “It has notes of cucumber and spiritual healing.” No, ma’am. That tastes like lawn mower juice with regret. And down South, we ain’t innocent either. We got chitlins, boiled peanuts, and somebody’s famous mystery casserole covered in so much cheese nobody can identify the original crime scene. But food ain’t the only entertainment. Family reunions come with characters. You got the cousins who say, “We don’t eat pork,” then leave with ribs wrapped in foil. You got the plate-fixing committee, standing by the table like airport security. You got the “bless their heart” branch of the family tree — that limb leaning a little funny but still producing fruit. And you got that one cousin who arrives late, eats first, complains loudest, and disappears before cleanup. If you don’t know who that is in your family, check your hands for barbecue sauce. But truth be told, family drama started early. The very first family gathering in Scripture went sideways. Cain got mad because Abel brought an offering that pleased God. Cain took one bite and said, “Lord, this brisket might make somebody act up.” And he did... Jealousy kicked in, attitude showed up, and the first family reunion turned into an episode of Biblical Family Feud. So if your reunion gets loud, somebody criticizes the potato salad, or Uncle Junior Cain-storms off over the last rib, just remember: Y’all are still doing better than Cain and Abel. And if you can eat, laugh, fuss, hug, forgive, and go back for seconds, thank God for it. Because somewhere, somebody like me is sitting quietly, smiling, listening to all the foolishness, and praying for the simple miracle of one more bite.