Today’s a new day! Hope is a funny little thing. It doesn’t need much room. Sometimes all it needs is a tiny crack in the door. ~OC
Being Present and Being Engaged: There Is a Difference
Today’s a new day!
Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is sitting beside someone who is physically there—but emotionally somewhere else.
Read that again.
Because there is a difference between being present and being engaged.
And honestly, I think a lot of us—including me—need to take a hard look at which one we are.
You can sit beside someone for hours and never really be with them.
You can eat dinner with your family while staring at your phone.
You can sit in church every Sunday and never truly encounter God.
You can listen to someone tell you they’re hurting while you’re already thinking about what you’re going to say next.
You can hug someone and say, “I’m here for you,” and yet never actually show up when life gets ugly.
Being present means your body showed up.
Being engaged means your heart did too.
And there’s a world of difference between the two.
Think about Jesus.
He didn’t just walk past hurting people.
He stopped.
He saw the blind man everyone else ignored.
He noticed Zacchaeus when everyone else saw a sinner.
He stopped for the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.
He touched lepers.
He sat with sinners.
He wept with those who were grieving.
He listened.
He noticed.
He cared.
Jesus didn’t simply share people’s space.
He entered their pain.
That’s engagement.
And maybe that’s what we’ve lost somewhere along the way.
We’re connected to everyone, yet sometimes we’re truly connected to no one.
We have hundreds of friends online but don’t know who is crying behind the smile sitting across from us.
We react to someone’s Facebook post with a heart but never send the message that says, “Are you really okay?”
We say, “Praying for you,” but sometimes never actually pray.
We say, “Let me know if you need anything,” knowing deep down that we’re hoping they never call.
And here’s the painful truth:
Some people don’t need another person telling them everything is going to be okay.
They need someone willing to sit beside them while everything isn’t okay.
They don’t need you to fix them.
They need you to listen.
They need you to stay.
They need you to care when their story gets uncomfortable.
They need you to love them when they aren’t easy to love.
They need you to put the phone down, look them in the eyes, and say:
“Tell me what’s really going on.”
And then stay quiet long enough to actually hear the answer.
Because sometimes the most powerful ministry isn’t a sermon.
It’s a conversation.
It’s a cup of coffee.
It’s a hand held during a difficult moment.
It’s sitting beside a hospital bed.
It’s answering the phone at 2 a.m.
It’s showing up when everyone else has disappeared.
It’s remembering someone’s name.
It’s noticing the person who always says, “I’m fine,” and loving them enough to know they’re not.
That’s what Jesus did.
He noticed people.
And maybe we should too.
So today, I want to challenge all of us—including myself.
Look around.
Really look.
Who in your life needs more than your presence?
Who needs your attention?
Who needs your time?
Who needs your listening ear?
Who is smiling on the outside while quietly falling apart on the inside?
Who have you been physically present with but emotionally absent from?
And perhaps most importantly…
Are you merely present with God, or are you engaged with Him?
Are you just attending church?
Or are you seeking Him?
Are you just reading Scripture?
Or are you allowing Scripture to change you?
Are you just saying prayers?
Or are you actually talking with your Father?
Because God doesn’t want a relationship where we simply check in.
He wants our hearts.
Life moves far too quickly.
One day, the person sitting beside you won’t be there anymore.
One day, the phone call you keep putting off won’t be possible.
One day, the chair across the table may be empty.
One day, you’ll wish you had listened longer.
Loved harder.
Forgiven sooner.
Put the phone down.
Stayed a little longer.
Don’t wait until someone’s funeral to realize you should have spent more time with them while they were alive.
Don’t wait until they’re gone to tell them what they meant to you.
Don’t wait until the opportunity disappears.
Be there now.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
Completely.
Because people may forget what you said.
They may forget what you did.
But they will never forget how you made them feel when they were hurting.
So take time to know the difference.
Being present says, “I’m here.”
Being engaged says, “You matter to me.”
And maybe the greatest way we can love people like Jesus loved us…
isn’t simply by showing up.
It’s by staying.
It’s by listening.
It’s by caring.
It’s by entering the mess.
It’s by refusing to walk away.
Because someday, when this life is over and we stand before our Savior, I don’t think we’re going to wish we had spent more time scrolling.
More time arguing.
More time worrying about things that didn’t matter.
More time trying to impress people who weren’t paying attention anyway.
I think we’ll wish we had loved more.
Listened more.
Forgiven more.
Prayed more.
And been there more.
So today…
Put the phone down.
Look up.
Look around.
Look into someone’s eyes.
Ask them how they’re really doing.
And when they finally tell you…
don’t rush away.
Stay.
Because sometimes your willingness to stay may be the very thing God uses to remind a broken heart:
“You are not alone.”
And perhaps that’s what being the hands and feet of Jesus really looks like.
**Not just being present…
but being fully, completely, sacrificially ENGAGED.
Be present. Be engaged. Love like Jesus.
Someone may be silently begging for someone to notice them today.
Please don’t be too busy to see them. ~OC
Tomorrow’s
No One Knows How Many Tomorrow’s Are In A Lifetime…
So I’ve stopped taking them for granted.
That’s one of the greatest lessons chronic illness has ever taught me.
For more than two decades, I’ve lived with something most people don’t see.
Behind the smiles are hospital rooms.
Behind the laughter are tears.
Behind the encouraging words are moments of fear that I’ve never shared with anyone.
There have been nights when I’ve laid in a hospital bed listening to the machines around me, wondering what tomorrow would look like.
There have been moments when I had to confront something none of us really want to think about:
I could die.
Not someday in some distant future.
But maybe sooner than I thought.
When death becomes more than a word—when it becomes a possibility sitting at the foot of your hospital bed—it changes the way you see everything.
You stop worrying so much about things that don’t matter.
You start caring more about the people you love.
You become grateful for things you once overlooked.
A sunrise.
A conversation.
A laugh.
A hug.
Another morning.
Another breath.
Another chance to tell someone, “I love you.”
Another opportunity to say, “Jesus has been good to me.”
Chronic illness has forced me to stretch the limits of my faith.
There have been moments when faith was the only thing I had left.
And sometimes my faith wasn’t strong.
Sometimes all I could whisper was:
“Jesus, please get me through tonight.”
And somehow, He did.
Not always by changing my circumstances.
But by changing me in the middle of them.
I’ve learned that thriving with chronic illness doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay.
It doesn’t mean putting a smile on your face and hiding the pain.
It means being honest enough to say,
“This hurts.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t understand.”
…and then somehow finding enough faith to say,
“But God, I’m still trusting You.”
That’s where writing came into my life.
During those long hospital stays, when the hours seemed to crawl by, I started writing simply to pass the time.
I didn’t know what it would become.
I just knew I had emotions trapped inside of me that needed somewhere to go.
So I wrote.
I wrote when I was scared.
I wrote when I was angry.
I wrote when I was hurting.
I wrote when I was grateful.
I wrote when I couldn’t understand what God was doing.
And I wrote when I needed to remind myself that God was still there.
Eventually, writing became a daily habit.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something:
Maybe these words aren’t just for me.
Maybe that hospital bed wasn’t only a place where I was fighting for my own life.
Maybe it was also a place where God was teaching me how to speak hope into someone else’s.
Because somewhere out there, someone is sitting in a hospital room tonight.
Someone is staring at a diagnosis they never expected.
Someone is crying where nobody can see them.
Someone is terrified about tomorrow.
Someone is wondering if their life still has meaning.
Someone is asking God,
“Why am I still here?”
And if my words can reach even one of those people and whisper,
“Please don’t give up. You’re not alone.”
then maybe the pain wasn’t completely wasted.
That’s what I’ve come to understand about purpose.
Sometimes purpose doesn’t come wrapped in something beautiful.
Sometimes purpose comes wrapped in pain.
Sometimes God takes the chapters we would have gladly erased and uses them to write hope into somebody else’s story.
I wouldn’t have chosen this journey.
I wouldn’t have chosen the illnesses.
I wouldn’t have chosen the hospital stays.
I wouldn’t have chosen the fear.
I wouldn’t have chosen the uncertainty.
But I can choose what I do with it.
I can let it destroy me.
Or I can place it in God’s hands and say,
“Use this, Lord.”
Use my scars.
Use my tears.
Use my failures.
Use my fears.
Use my story.
Use every broken piece of me.
Just don’t let my suffering be meaningless.
Because I don’t know how many pages are left in my story.
And neither do you.
That’s the truth we don’t like to talk about.
Every one of us is living on borrowed time.
We just don’t know how much time is left.
So I’m trying to stop counting the years…
and start counting the moments.
I’m trying to embrace the time God gives me instead of being consumed by the time I don’t have.
I’m trying to live while I’m alive.
To love while I can.
To forgive while I can.
To encourage while I can.
To write while I can.
To tell people about Jesus while I can.
To leave a little more hope in this world than I found.
Because one day, all of us will write our final sentence.
And when that day comes, I don’t want my greatest regret to be all the things I was too afraid to do.
I want to know that I used what God gave me.
That I loved people.
That I encouraged people.
That I prayed for people.
That I made somebody feel less alone.
That I pointed somebody toward Jesus.
That I didn’t allow my illness to steal the purpose and joy God placed inside of me.
So…
I will keep writing.
Even when my hands are tired.
Even when my heart is heavy.
Even when my thoughts are harder to find.
Even when the words come through tears.
Because there is still something inside of me that needs to be said.
And there is still somebody who may need to hear it.
I don’t know how many tomorrows I have.
But I have today.
And today is enough.
Today, I can love.
Today, I can pray.
Today, I can encourage.
Today, I can write.
Today, I can live.
Today, I can tell somebody,
“Don’t give up.”
And today, I can look toward Heaven and say:
“Thank You, God, for one more day.”
I don’t know how my story ends.
But I know Who holds the pen.
And until He writes “The End,”
I’m going to keep turning the page…and live. ~OC
Good Morning!
Today’s a new day!
I have some wonderful news to share this morning!
I was transferred out of the ICU late last night, and I am now on the Neurology floor of the hospital. Yesterday, I completed my fourth treatment, and I have just one more treatment Saturday morning. If everything continues to go as planned, I should be heading HOME shortly after treatment on Saturday.
This week, my medical team shared just how close I came to not being here today. Those words were difficult to hear, but they also remind me just how precious every single day truly is.
And once again, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
To everyone who prayed, sent messages, visited, checked in, encouraged us, stood with us, and lifted us before the Lord—Laura and I are so incredibly grateful.
God heard your prayers.
God answered your prayers.
And I believe with all my heart that God is not finished with me yet.
There is still a purpose for my life. There is still work to do. There are still people to love, lives to touch, and stories of God’s faithfulness to share.
Once again, Laura and I are deeply grateful for every prayer and every person who has walked alongside us through this journey.
God is good. All the time.
I pray that each and every one of you has a beautiful, blessed, and God-filled day. Never take today for granted. Today is a gift.
Keep praying. Keep believing. Keep overcoming.~OC
We’re All Living on Borrowed Time
Here’s a truth we don’t always want to think about:
Every one of us is living on borrowed time.
We may not all have the same diagnosis, the same number of years, or the same circumstances—but none of us knows how many days we have left.
Scripture reminds us, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12
So the question isn’t simply “How much time do I have?”
The bigger question is:
“What am I going to do with the time God has given me?”
Are you going to spend it holding grudges—or choosing forgiveness?
Are you going to chase things that won’t matter in eternity—or invest in people who will?
Are you going to keep waiting for the perfect moment—or start living with purpose today?
Are you going to complain about what you’ve lost—or thank God for what you still have?
Are you going to keep putting off that phone call, that hug, that apology, that act of kindness, that step of faith?
None of us is promised tomorrow.
But today is a gift.
Every breath is an opportunity.
Every sunrise is another invitation to love, serve, encourage, forgive, worship, and make a difference.
We are not guaranteed unlimited time.
We are guaranteed this moment.
So don’t waste the life you have wishing for the life you think you should have had.
Take the time God has placed in your hands and use it for something that matters.
Love deeply.
Forgive freely.
Serve faithfully.
Speak life.
Encourage somebody.
Tell your family you love them.
Help someone who is hurting.
Share your faith.
Make memories.
And above all, live for Jesus.
Because one day, our borrowed time will be over.
My prayer is that when that day comes, we won’t have to wonder whether we truly lived.
Let’s live a life that mattered.
Let’s leave footprints of faith, hope, love, and grace.
Let’s make every remaining day count.
Your time is a gift. What are you deciding to do with it? ~OC
#LiveWithPurpose #MakeEveryDayCount #Faith #Hope #Love #Jesus #Overcomer #LifeOfSignificance
Bridges
Today’s a new day.
Your struggles are not liabilities. They’re bridges.
The things you’ve walked through—the pain, the setbacks, the tears, the moments when you wondered if you had enough strength to keep going—may feel like weaknesses. But sometimes, those very struggles become the places where your story connects with someone else’s.
Your scars remind people that healing is possible.
Your tears remind people that it’s okay to hurt.
Your perseverance reminds people that they can keep going.
Your testimony reminds people that they are not alone.
We often think we have to hide our struggles to be strong. But sometimes, strength is found in being honest enough to say, “I’ve been there too.”
Because somewhere out there, someone is silently bleeding, silently fighting, and silently wondering if anyone understands.
And then they hear your story.
They realize they’re not the only one hurting.
They’re not the only one fighting.
They’re not the only one trying to find their way through the darkness.
Your struggle can become a bridge from someone’s despair to hope.
So don’t be ashamed of the scars you carry. Don’t believe the lie that your difficult seasons make you less valuable.
Your struggles are not liabilities. They’re bridges.
Let God use every scar, every battle, every tear, and every victory to remind someone else:
“You are not alone. Keep fighting. Keep believing. Keep overcoming.” ~OC
A Letter From My Heart
Dear Family and Friends,
As I continue to walk through this health battle, I have made a decision that I believe I need to make for this season of my life: I need to slow down and take a break.
For the time being, I will be scaling back on posting blog posts, social media, creating and sharing music, and being involved in too many meetings and activities.
This is not an easy decision for me. Writing has always been one of the ways I process life, share my thoughts, encourage others, and hopefully make a difference. Music has become another beautiful part of that journey. And being part of meetings and connecting with people has meant so much to me.
But sometimes we have to recognize when we simply don’t have anything left to give.
Putting my thoughts together on paper can be challenging right now. There are days when the words don’t come easily, and even simple things can require more energy than I have. And honestly, I’m just tired.
Tired doesn’t mean I’m giving up.
It doesn’t mean I have lost my faith, my hope, or my desire to encourage others. It simply means that I need to give myself permission to take a break.
I have spent so much of this crazy beautiful health journey trying to keep moving forward, even in the middle of some incredibly difficult battles. But perhaps part of being an overcomer is understanding that sometimes overcoming means knowing when to stop, breathe, rest, and allow yourself to be renewed.
So, for this season, I am choosing to step back.
I don’t know exactly how long this break will last. I don’t know what the next chapter will look like. I’m simply taking things one day at a time and trusting God with what comes next.
I want to say thank you to every person who has supported me along this journey.
Thank you for reading my words.
Thank you for listening to my music.
Thank you for encouraging me.
Thank you for praying for me.
Thank you for standing beside me through the difficult days.
Thank you for reminding me that my story matters.
Your support has meant more to me than I can adequately put into words.
For now, I am going to give myself permission to rest, to be quiet, to process, and to simply live each day as it comes.
I may be stepping back from the things I normally share, but I am not stepping away from hope.
I am not stepping away from faith.
And I am certainly not giving up.
Sometimes the strongest thing an overcomer can say is, “I need to rest.”
So that’s where I am right now.
Taking a breath.
Taking a step back.
Taking care of myself.
And trusting God with the journey.
Thank you for understanding.
Thank you for walking with me.
And thank you for being part of this crazy, beautiful journey called life.
Until I share again, please keep believing, keep hoping, keep loving, and keep overcoming.
With love and gratitude,
OC
The Church Should Never Be Full of Cliques
Today’s a new day!
The Church was never meant to be a place where people walk through the doors and immediately wonder, “Where do I fit in?”
Unfortunately, too many churches have become filled with cliques—small groups of people who only talk to certain people, sit with certain people, socialize with certain people, and sometimes make newcomers feel like outsiders simply because they aren’t part of the “in crowd.”
That should break our hearts.
The Church should be one of the most welcoming places on earth.
Jesus didn’t build His ministry around exclusive circles. He reached out to the forgotten, the hurting, the rejected, the sinners, the poor, the sick, and the people society had pushed to the margins. He didn’t ask people to prove they belonged before He loved them.
He simply loved them.
So why do we sometimes make people work so hard to find a place within the Church?
Cliques don’t attract people. Love does.
Cliques create walls. Jesus tore down walls.
Cliques make people feel invisible. Jesus made people feel seen.
Cliques say, “You don’t belong with us.”
Jesus says, “Come to Me.”
Think about the person who walks into church for the first time. Maybe they’re struggling with addiction. Maybe their marriage is falling apart. Maybe they’ve been hurt by the Church before. Maybe they’re grieving. Maybe they’re lonely. Maybe they’re questioning their faith. Maybe they simply don’t know anyone.
What do they experience when they walk through our doors?
Do they see people who are willing to stop, introduce themselves, sit beside them, listen to their story and make room for them?
Or do they see groups gathered together who barely acknowledge anyone outside their circle?
We need to understand something: people are watching.
Sometimes our greatest testimony isn’t what happens on the platform. It’s what happens in the hallway.
It’s whether we notice the person standing alone.
It’s whether we invite someone to sit with us.
It’s whether we learn someone’s name.
It’s whether we ask, “How are you really doing?” and actually listen to the answer.
It’s whether we make room at our table.
The Church doesn’t need more exclusive circles. The Church needs wider tables.
And this isn’t about saying that friendships are wrong. Of course we will naturally develop deeper friendships with certain people. That’s part of being human.
The problem begins when our friendships become barriers.
There is a difference between having close friends and creating a closed circle.
There is a difference between community and exclusivity.
There is a difference between fellowship and favoritism.
Jesus called us to love one another, not just the people who look like us, think like us, worship like us or already belong to our social circle.
The Church should be a family where there is room for everybody.
The single person.
The married couple.
The young person.
The senior adult.
The lifelong Christian.
The person who is just beginning to believe.
The person who has walked away and is trying to find their way home.
The person who has been hurt by religion.
The person who doesn’t have it all together.
Because here’s the truth:
None of us has it all together.
We are all people in need of God’s grace.
So let’s stop building little kingdoms inside God’s house.
Let’s stop worrying about who belongs to our group.
Let’s stop protecting our circles and start expanding our tables.
Let’s become the kind of Church where a stranger doesn’t remain a stranger.
Where the lonely find friendship.
Where the broken find compassion.
Where the hurting find hope.
Where the questioning are welcomed.
Where the forgotten are remembered.
Where the outsider becomes family.
And where the first thing people experience isn’t judgment, suspicion or exclusion—but the love of Jesus.
If we want people to come to church, we have to give them something worth coming to.
Not perfect people.
Not impressive programs.
Not political tribes.
Not cliques.
Jesus.
And Jesus is love.
Maybe it’s time for all of us to look around our churches and ask ourselves one uncomfortable but important question:
“Am I helping create a Church that welcomes people, or am I helping create a circle that keeps people out?”
Because the Church doesn’t belong to us.
It belongs to Jesus.
And His table has always been bigger than our clique.
Let’s make room.
Let’s love people well.
Let’s tear down the walls.
Let’s open the doors.
Let’s become the Church Jesus called us to be. ~OC
When We Prayed For Everyone
I remember when churches prayed for presidents whether they voted for them or not.
We prayed for Democrats.
We prayed for Republicans.
We prayed for independents.
We prayed for people we agreed with.
We prayed for people we couldn’t understand.
We prayed for people who insulted us.
Because Jesus told us to pray for our enemies.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, we started praying more against people than for people.
We began treating political opponents like enemies of God.
But Jesus never handed us a ballot and said,
“Here is how you will know who your neighbor is.”
He handed us a command:
Love them.
I miss those days.
And I wonder what might happen if the Church started praying like Jesus again. ~OC
A Day In My Life
Today’s a new day!
There are days when I wake up and have to remind myself that my body is not the same body I had years ago.
For most people, waking up is simply the beginning of another day. For me, waking up can feel like the beginning of another battle.
I live with Parkinson’s, Myasthenia Gravis, Gastroparesis and Dementia. Each condition brings its own challenges, and sometimes they seem to take turns—or work together—to remind me that this journey is anything but easy.
But there is something else I wake up with every morning:
Hope.
Morning Comes With Questions
Before my feet even hit the floor, I often have to figure out what kind of day my body is going to allow me to have.
Will my muscles cooperate today?
Will the Parkinson’s symptoms be manageable?
Will my mind be clear, or will dementia make the morning confusing?
Will my stomach tolerate food?
Will fatigue consume the energy I need just to get through the day?
These aren’t questions most people have to ask themselves when they wake up.
For me, they are part of everyday life.
Sometimes getting dressed takes longer than it should. Sometimes walking across a room requires concentration. Sometimes my body simply doesn’t want to cooperate with what my mind is telling it to do.
And yet, I get up.
Because I’m still here.
Even Breakfast Can Be a Battle
Gastroparesis has changed my relationship with food.
Something as simple as eating breakfast isn’t always simple. My stomach doesn’t always cooperate, and there are days when eating can leave me feeling miserable.
There are times when I wish I could just sit down and enjoy a normal meal without thinking about what it might do to my body afterward.
But I’ve learned that living with chronic illness means learning to adapt.
You make adjustments.
You listen to your body.
You celebrate the small victories.
Sometimes simply being able to eat something and keep it down is a victory.
Then There Is Fatigue
Myasthenia Gravis brings another level of unpredictability.
Fatigue isn’t always the kind of tiredness that a good night’s sleep fixes.
It can feel like my muscles have simply run out of strength.
Things that look incredibly easy from the outside can require tremendous effort on the inside.
Walking.
Standing.
Getting dressed.
Taking a shower.
Going through a normal day.
People may see me doing something and think, “That doesn’t look difficult.”
What they can’t see is the energy it may have taken for me to do it.
That’s one of the hardest things about invisible illness.
People see what you accomplish.
They don’t always see what it cost you.
Then There Is Dementia
Perhaps one of the most frightening parts of this journey is not always knowing whether my mind is going to cooperate.
There are moments when memories become difficult to retrieve.
There are moments of confusion.
There are moments when I know something should be familiar, but my mind doesn’t immediately connect the dots.
And that can be frightening.
There is a unique kind of frustration that comes when your mind doesn’t work the way you know it once did.
You know the information is somewhere inside you, but you can’t always reach it.
I’ve had to learn to be patient with myself.
I’ve had to learn that forgetting something doesn’t make me less valuable.
Confusion doesn’t make me less of a person.
And needing help doesn’t make me weak.
Some Days Are Better Than Others
That’s probably one of the biggest lessons chronic illness has taught me.
No two days are exactly alike.
Some days I accomplish more than I expected.
Other days, simply getting through the day is the accomplishment.
And I’ve learned not to measure the value of my life by how much I accomplish.
My worth isn’t determined by how productive I am.
My worth isn’t determined by how fast I walk.
My worth isn’t determined by how clearly I speak.
My worth isn’t determined by what my diseases have taken from me.
My worth comes from God.
And that changes everything.
I Still Have Things To Do
One of the greatest mistakes we can make when facing a long-term health battle is believing that our lives are over.
They’re not.
They may look different.
The dreams may have to change.
The pace may have to change.
The plans may have to change.
But our purpose doesn’t disappear simply because our bodies change.
I may not be able to do everything I once did.
But I can still encourage someone.
I can still love my family.
I can still pray.
I can still write.
I can still share my story.
I can still remind someone else that they aren’t alone.
And maybe that’s part of my purpose.
Maybe the scars from this journey aren’t just reminders of what I’ve survived.
Maybe they’re opportunities to help someone else survive their own battle.
Some Days I Get Tired
I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
There are days when I’m tired of being tired.
There are days when I wish I could have just one completely normal day.
One day without thinking about symptoms.
One day without wondering what my body is going to do.
One day without having to calculate how much energy something will require.
One day without my mind playing tricks on me.
But even on those days, I remind myself:
I’m still here.
And as long as I’m here, there is still purpose.
My Life Isn’t Defined By My Diseases
Parkinson’s is something I live with.
Myasthenia Gravis is something I live with.
Gastroparesis is something I live with.
Dementia is something I live with.
But none of those things gets to define who I am.
I am more than my medical chart.
I am more than my symptoms.
I am more than my limitations.
I am more than the difficult days.
I am a husband.
I am a friend.
I am a child of God.
I am an overcomer.
And I am still walking this journey one day at a time.
If You’re Walking A Similar Journey
If you’re reading this while living with Parkinson’s, Myasthenia Gravis, Gastroparesis, Dementia, or another chronic illness, I want you to know something:
You are not your diagnosis.
Don’t be ashamed of needing help.
Don’t feel guilty for resting.
Don’t compare your journey to someone else’s.
Don’t beat yourself up because today wasn’t as productive as yesterday.
Give yourself grace.
Celebrate the little victories.
And when all you can do today is get out of bed and make it through the day, remember that sometimes surviving the day is a victory worth celebrating.
And For Me, There Is Still Hope
My faith doesn’t mean I pretend this journey is easy.
It means I don’t have to walk through it alone.
There are days when I don’t understand why God has allowed this journey to be so long.
There are days when I am exhausted.
There are days when I have questions.
But I continue to hold onto God’s promises.
I continue to believe that my life has purpose.
I continue to believe that my story can encourage someone else.
And I continue to wake up every morning and say:
“God, I’m still here. Use me.”
That’s what a day in my life looks like.
It’s messy.
It’s unpredictable.
It’s exhausting.
Sometimes it’s painful.
Sometimes it’s confusing.
But it is also filled with moments of grace, love, laughter, faith and hope.
And tomorrow morning, when I wake up, I will do it all over again.
Not because this journey is easy.
But because I’m still here.
And as long as God gives me another day, I intend to live it with purpose.
I may have Parkinson’s.
I may have Myasthenia Gravis.
I may have Gastroparesis.
I may have Dementia.
But I am not defeated.
I am still walking.
I am still fighting.
I am still believing.
I am still hoping.
I am still an Overcomer. ~OC
The Blessed Overcomer 