Tag: Pain

Lead By Example

Today’s a new day!

True leadership isn’t about asking others to walk a road you’ve never traveled. It’s about being willing to take the hard falls, endure the painful lessons, and face the storms before asking others to follow.

A great leader doesn’t hide the scars. They share the pain, the struggles, and the lessons learned along the way—not to gain sympathy, but to help someone else avoid the same pitfalls.

The greatest leaders don’t just show people the way; they walk the road with them.

You don’t have to be perfect to lead. You just have to be willing to be honest, vulnerable, and courageous enough to say, “I’ve been there. I’ve fallen, I’ve hurt, and I’ve learned. Let me help you keep going.”

And as followers of Jesus, may we always remember that He didn’t simply point us toward the cross. He carried His own cross and showed us what sacrificial love looks like.

Lead with humility. Share your scars. Lift others up.

Because sometimes, the pain you’ve survived becomes the wisdom someone else needs to survive their own storm. ~OC

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Why Am I Still Alive?

Today’s a new day!

Twenty-four years. Multiple diagnoses. Countless tests, treatments, surgeries, hospitalizations, and moments when the future looked anything but certain. And somehow, by the grace of God, I am still here.

Sometimes I sit back and ask myself a question that I don’t always know how to answer.

WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?

I’m not asking that question for attention. I’m not asking it because I want people to feel sorry for me. And I’m certainly not asking it because I believe I’m stronger than someone else who didn’t survive their battle.

I’m asking because, after everything my body has endured over the last twenty-four years, there are moments when I honestly don’t understand how I’m still standing.

I’ve lived with multiple life threatening health issues. I have experienced moments when my health has deteriorated so badly that living another day wasn’t something I could take for granted.

I’ve heard the medical predictions. I’ve faced the uncertainty. I’ve endured the pain, the exhaustion, and the frustration of watching my body struggle to do things that once came naturally.

I’ve experienced moments when speaking was difficult, when my body wouldn’t cooperate, and when the future seemed to be slipping away from me.

I’ve spent time in intensive care. I’ve faced hospitalizations when things didn’t look good. I’ve experienced the kind of physical suffering that is difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t walked a similar road.

And through it all, one question continues to follow me.

WHY HAS GOD ALLOWED ME TO LIVE WHEN SO MANY TIMES IT SEEMED LIKE MY STORY SHOULD HAVE ENDED?

I wish I had a simple answer.

I don’t.

But I know this: JESUS. ONLY JESUS.

I’m not claiming that I understand every medical explanation, every close call, or every reason I’ve survived. I’m not suggesting that faith means we never need doctors, medicine, treatments, or the hands of medical professionals. God has worked through many of those people and resources in my life, and I am grateful for them.

I’m also not going to pretend that every day is a victory lap.

Some days hurt. Some nights seem endless. There are moments when the exhaustion runs deeper than words can explain. There are things I miss about the life I once had, and there are battles I never imagined I would have to fight.

My faith doesn’t make me immune to fear, frustration, grief, or questions.

Faith simply gives me somewhere to take those things.

I take them to Jesus.

Sometimes my prayers are long and full of words. Other times, all I can manage is a whisper. And sometimes, when I don’t have the strength to say anything at all, I simply hold on to the truth that He is still there.

I have learned that you don’t have to understand everything God is doing to trust Him with your life.

You don’t have to feel strong to keep believing.

And you don’t have to pretend everything is okay to have genuine faith.

I’M STILL HERE, BUT I’M NOT GOING TO PRETEND I KNOW WHY.

People sometimes talk about surviving as though it automatically makes someone a hero. But I don’t see myself that way.

I’m a husband. I’m a son. I’m a friend. I’m a child of God.

I’m a man who has experienced more medical battles than he ever expected, a man who has had to learn how to live with a body that doesn’t always cooperate, and a man who still has questions about what tomorrow might bring.

I’m not alive because I figured out some secret to beating every illness.

I’m not alive because I never became afraid.

And I’m certainly not alive because I have somehow earned more of God’s favor than someone who lost their battle.

I am still here, and I am deeply grateful for every additional day I have been given.

I believe Jesus has carried me through moments when I didn’t have the strength to carry myself. I believe His presence has sustained me when the circumstances around me offered very little comfort. I believe there is still purpose in loving people, encouraging others, sharing my faith, and telling the truth about what it means to walk through suffering.

But I cannot tell you with certainty why my story continues while someone else’s ended.

I won’t pretend to know God’s complete plan.

What I can tell you is that my survival has made me more aware of how precious life is, how fragile our bodies can be, and how desperately we need grace.

I no longer want to waste my life chasing things that don’t matter.

I want to love my wife well. I want to encourage the brokenhearted. I want to stand beside people who feel forgotten. I want to remind those who are struggling that their diagnoses do not erase their dignity, their value, or their identity.

I want people to see Jesus in the way I live, not simply in the words I write.

If I have another twenty years, I want to use them well.

If I have twenty more days, I want to use them well.

And if tomorrow brings another medical battle, I pray I will face it with the same Savior who has sustained me through the battles behind me.

Because the number of days I have left is not something I can control.

What I do with the day I’ve been given is something I can choose.

JESUS NEVER PROMISED ME AN EASY ROAD.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that following Jesus doesn’t mean we get to skip suffering.

Faithful people get sick.

Faithful people experience pain.

Faithful people sit beside hospital beds, receive devastating diagnoses, and sometimes bury the people they prayed would be healed.

And sometimes, despite our most desperate prayers, the outcome isn’t what we hoped for.

I believe in miracles. I’ve experienced moments in my own journey that I can only describe as miraculous. I believe God can heal, restore, strengthen, and do things beyond our understanding.

But I also believe that Jesus is worthy of our trust when healing doesn’t come the way we prayed it would.

My faith cannot depend entirely on whether my body gets better.

If I make physical healing the only evidence of God’s goodness, what happens on the days when my symptoms worsen? What happens when another diagnosis arrives? What happens when I wake up hurting?

Does that mean God has abandoned me?

No.

My circumstances may change. My physical abilities may change. My future may look different from the one I imagined.

But my identity in Christ does not depend on the condition of my body.

Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 12:9 that God’s grace is sufficient and that His power is made perfect in weakness.

That Scripture means something different to me now than it did before I became seriously ill.

I understand that weakness isn’t always something we overcome in the way we hoped. Sometimes weakness is something we learn to live with while discovering that God’s grace is still sufficient.

Sometimes overcoming means getting out of bed.

Sometimes it means enduring another treatment.

Sometimes it means asking for help when our pride tells us not to.

Sometimes it means crying, praying, and getting through one more difficult day.

And sometimes, overcoming simply means refusing to believe that our suffering has made our lives meaningless.

I AM STILL AN OVERCOMER, EVEN ON THE DAYS WHEN I FEEL OVERWHELMED.

Not because I always win the battles I fight, but because my identity is rooted in the One who holds me through them.

SO, WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?

After twenty-four years of health battles, I could give you a dozen answers.

Medical professionals have treated me. My wife, Laura, has stood beside me through more than most people could imagine. Family and friends have prayed for me. People have encouraged me when I needed encouragement.

I am grateful for every single one of them.

But when I look back over the moments when I wondered whether I would survive, when I think about the times I had almost nothing left to give, and when I consider how much of this journey has been beyond my control, I keep coming back to the same place.

JESUS.

Not because I can explain every moment.

Not because I know what tomorrow holds.

Not because I believe I am guaranteed another miracle.

But because, in the middle of all my unanswered questions, He remains the foundation of my faith.

I don’t know how many more years I have.

I don’t know what the next diagnosis, treatment, or hospitalization might bring.

I don’t know whether the hardest part of my journey is behind me or still ahead.

But I know I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left living in fear of what might happen.

I want to live with purpose.

I want to love deeply.

I want to forgive freely.

I want to encourage relentlessly.

I want to tell people about the hope I’ve found in Jesus without pretending that following Him makes life easy.

And I want to remind people who are fighting battles of their own that they are more than the worst thing that has happened to them.

You are more than your diagnosis.

You are more than your mistakes.

You are more than the opinions of people who don’t understand your journey.

And you are not forgotten simply because your life looks different from the one you imagined.

I cannot promise you that everything will work out the way you want it to. I cannot promise that every prayer will be answered in the way you hope.

But I can tell you that you do not have to walk through your suffering alone.

Jesus meets us in the broken places. He gives us grace for the moments when we have none left to give ourselves. And He reminds us that our worth was never determined by our strength, our health, or our ability to keep everything together.

I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still believing. And I am still trusting Jesus.

Not because I have all the answers.

But because I know where to turn when I don’t.

Twenty-four years ago, I could never have imagined the road I would travel. I never would have chosen it. I would never wish these battles on anyone.

But I am here.

And as long as I am here, I want my life to point beyond me.

I want people to see more than a man with multiple medical diagnoses. I want them to see a husband who loves his wife, a friend who cares about people, a man who still believes in the power of prayer, and a child of God who is learning to trust Jesus one day at a time.

I don’t need to understand every chapter to be grateful that my story is still being written.

And I don’t need to know how many pages remain to make the next one count.

WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?

I don’t know the complete answer.

But I know who I am trusting with the question.

His name is Jesus.

And until He calls me home, I will keep loving, keep serving, keep believing, keep encouraging, and keep overcoming.

Not perfectly.

Not without pain.

Not without questions.

But by His grace, one day at a time.

ONLY JESUS KNOWS WHY I’M STILL HERE. SO, JESUS, WHILE I’M HERE, PLEASE HELP ME MAKE MY LIFE COUNT.

“For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” — Philippians 1:21

KEEP FIGHTING. KEEP BELIEVING. KEEP LOVING. KEEP OVERCOMING.

Your health issues may be part of your story, but they do not get to define the entirety of your life. Your story is still about the person you love, the people you encourage, the grace you extend, and the Jesus you follow.

— A Blessed Overcomer, still walking by faith. ~OC

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Sin Is No Joke

I HATE SIN.

Not because I think I’m better than anyone else. Not because I’ve never fallen short. I hate sin because I’ve seen what it destroys.

Sin destroys people.
Sin destroys families.
Sin destroys trust.
Sin destroys churches.
Sin can destroy ministries and testimonies that took years to build.

Sin always promises more than it can deliver and takes more than we ever intended to give.

We need to stop treating sin like it’s harmless. Stop laughing about it. Stop excusing it. Stop calling it “just a little thing.”

Sin is nothing to joke around with.

But here’s the good news: Jesus didn’t come to condemn broken people. He came to save us, redeem us, forgive us, and set us free.

“Be killing sin or it will be killing you.” — John Owen

Run from sin. Run toward Jesus.

Grace is real. Forgiveness is real. Redemption is real. And because of Jesus, there is always a way home. ~OC

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Stop Scrolling: America, We Need to Wake Up About Mental Health!

Saturday, October 10, is World Mental Health Day. And America, we need to have an honest conversation about mental health—not just one day a year, but every single day.

Mental health is a serious issue affecting millions of people across America and around the world. Yet, somehow, we still live in a society where people are mocked, ridiculed, and criticized for admitting they are struggling.

Recently, a so-called ESPN reporter criticized and made fun of Philadelphia Eagles offensive lineman Lane Johnson over his decision to step away from football amid mental health struggles and reportedly having both parents dealing with health issues. The reporter later attempted to apologize, but the apology came across as forced rather than sincere.

Let me be clear: THERE IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT SOMEONE STRUGGLING WITH THEIR MENTAL HEALTH!

We celebrate athletes for playing through physical injuries. We call them tough when they push through pain. But when someone acknowledges that they are struggling mentally and needs to step away, suddenly some people turn it into a punchline.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH US?

Mental health struggles don’t make you weak. Asking for help doesn’t make you a failure. Taking time to care for yourself doesn’t make you less of a man, woman, parent, spouse, friend, or professional.

IT MAKES YOU HUMAN!

We need to stop telling people to toughen up and start asking how we can help. We need to stop making jokes about struggles we may never fully understand. And we need to create a culture where people feel safe enough to say, “I’m not okay, and I need help.”

Whether you’re an NFL player, a teacher, a pastor, a first responder, a parent, a student, or someone quietly fighting battles nobody else can see, YOUR MENTAL HEALTH MATTERS!

If you’re struggling, please don’t suffer in silence. Reach out to someone you trust. Talk to a mental health professional. Ask for help. You are not alone, and you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

And if someone trusts you enough to share their struggles, respond with compassion instead of criticism.

America, it’s time to wake up! We cannot keep talking about loving our neighbors while laughing at their pain.

Let’s stop stigmatizing mental health and start treating people with the dignity, compassion, and grace they deserve.

Because sometimes the strongest thing a person can do is admit they need help.

And sometimes, the most important thing we can do for someone else is simply remind them that they don’t have to fight alone.

BE KIND. SHOW COMPASSION. END THE STIGMA. MENTAL HEALTH MATTERS! ~OC

If you or someone you know is struggling emotionally, help is available. In the United States, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, 24 hours a day.

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Twenty Reasons to Get Out of Bed Every Day

Sometimes getting out of bed can be tough.

Can I get an amen?

As I have walked this crazy, beautiful health journey, I have learned a few lessons. I have learned that some mornings begin with pain. Some begin with exhaustion. Some begin with questions we don’t have answers for. And some mornings, simply putting your feet on the floor feels like an accomplishment.

But I’ve also learned something else:

As long as God gives us another day, there is still a reason to get up.

So, from someone who has learned to keep fighting, keep believing, and keep overcoming, here are 20 reasons to get out of bed every day:

1. Because you woke up.

Every new morning is a gift. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow isn’t promised. But today is here.

2. Because God isn’t finished with you.

If you’re still here, your story isn’t over. There is still purpose in your life.

3. Because someone needs you.

Your spouse, your children, your family, your friends, your church, your neighbor—or someone you haven’t even met yet.

4. Because there is still someone to love.

Love isn’t just something we receive. It’s something we give away.

5. Because there is still someone who needs encouragement.

Sometimes your simple “I’m praying for you” can change someone’s entire day.

6. Because your testimony matters.

Someone may be watching how you walk through your storm. Your scars may become someone else’s hope.

7. Because pain doesn’t get the final word.

Pain may be part of your story, but it doesn’t have to define your story.

8. Because there are still miracles to witness.

Sometimes miracles look like healing. Sometimes they look like strength to make it through another day.

9. Because you can still make a difference.

You don’t have to change the entire world. Sometimes changing one person’s world is enough.

10. Because tomorrow’s blessing may require today’s obedience.

You may not understand what God is doing today. Keep walking anyway.

11. Because there are still memories to make.

There are sunsets you haven’t seen, conversations you haven’t had, places you haven’t visited and moments you haven’t experienced.

12. Because laughter is still waiting for you.

Life can be incredibly hard, but there is still room for joy.

13. Because somebody needs to hear your story.

Never underestimate what God can do with a life that refuses to give up.

14. Because you are more than your circumstances.

Your diagnosis isn’t your identity. Your failures aren’t your identity. Your worst day isn’t your identity.

15. Because there is still work to do.

Maybe it’s big. Maybe it’s small. Maybe it’s simply loving the person standing beside you. It all matters.

16. Because hope is still alive.

Even when you can’t see the way forward, you can take the next step.

17. Because God can bring beauty from brokenness.

Some of the most beautiful things in life can grow from the hardest seasons.

18. Because someone else needs to see you keep going.

Your perseverance may give someone else permission to believe they can keep going too.

19. Because you haven’t seen the end of your story.

Don’t close the book while God is still writing the chapters.

20. Because Jesus is still with you.

Through the good days. Through the bad days. Through the pain, fear, uncertainty and exhaustion.

You are never walking alone.

So tomorrow morning, when getting out of bed feels impossible, start small.

Put your feet on the floor.

Take a breath.

Say a prayer.

And whisper:

“Lord, thank You for another day. I don’t know what today will bring, but I’m still here. I’m still fighting. I’m still believing. I’m still overcoming. Let’s see what You can do with this day.”

Then get up.

Not because every day will be easy.

But because every day is still worth living.

Keep fighting.
Keep believing.
Keep loving.
Keep overcoming.

And most importantly—

Keep Jesus at the center of it all.

Today is a new day.

Get up. God isn’t finished with you yet. ~OC

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Be The Calm

Today’s a new day!

There is enough chaos in this world without us adding to it.

Enough anger.
Enough outrage.
Enough arguing.
Enough division.
Enough people reacting before they ever stop to think.

And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do isn’t to speak louder.

It’s to stay calm.

When everyone else is losing their minds, be the person who brings peace.

When everyone else is reacting, be the person who pauses.

When everyone else is throwing gasoline on the fire, be the person who refuses to pick up the match.

When everyone else is looking for someone to blame, be the person willing to extend grace.

Because as followers of Jesus, we were never called to mirror the chaos around us.

We were called to carry something different.

Jesus didn’t promise us a life without storms.

He promised us His presence in the middle of them.

Think about Jesus asleep in the boat while the disciples were terrified by the storm. The waves were crashing. Fear had taken over. Everyone was panicking.

And Jesus got up and spoke to the storm:

“Peace! Be still!”

Maybe sometimes the miracle God wants to work through us isn’t calming the storm around us.

Maybe it’s teaching us how to remain calm while we’re standing in it.

You don’t have to answer every accusation.

You don’t have to win every argument.

You don’t have to respond to every criticism.

You don’t have to match someone else’s anger.

You don’t have to become bitter because someone else is bitter.

And you certainly don’t have to join the storm just because everyone else is standing in the rain.

Be different.

Be the calm.

Be the peace.

Be the person who walks into a chaotic room and changes the atmosphere—not because you have all the answers, but because you know the One who does.

The world doesn’t need more people adding to the noise.

It needs people who carry peace.

People who know when to speak and when to remain silent.

People who choose grace when anger would be easier.

People who choose forgiveness when bitterness feels justified.

People who refuse to let the storm outside determine the condition of their heart inside.

So today, before you react, pause.

Before you respond, pray.

Before you speak, ask yourself whether your words will bring healing or simply add to the storm.

You may not be able to control the storm.

But with God’s help, you can control whether you become part of it.

Don’t join the storm.

Be the calm in the middle of it.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who is drowning in the storm will find their way to Jesus because they saw His peace living inside of you. ~OC

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Do You Have a Healthy Place to Grieve?

Where do you go when your heart is hurting?

Not where do you go to distract yourself.

Not where do you go to pretend you’re okay.

Not where do you go to put on a smile so nobody asks questions.

Where do you go to grieve?

Because sooner or later, every one of us will experience loss.

We will lose people we love. We will lose dreams we once believed would come true. We will lose seasons of our lives. We will lose relationships, opportunities, abilities, homes, jobs, friendships, and sometimes even the person we thought we were going to become.

And sometimes the hardest grief isn’t the loss of a person.

Sometimes it’s grieving the life you thought you would have.

I’ve learned that grief doesn’t always look like tears.

Sometimes grief looks like anger.

Sometimes it looks like silence.

Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.

Sometimes it looks like sitting alone in a room because you don’t have the energy to explain what you’re feeling.

Sometimes grief looks like laughing with your friends while carrying an incredible amount of pain inside.

And sometimes grief comes years after the loss because we were too busy surviving to actually grieve.

So let me ask you something: Do you have a healthy place to grieve?

Because I believe this is something the Church needs to talk about more.

We are often very good at telling people to have faith.

“Pray about it.”

“Trust God.”

“God has a plan.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

And yes, there is truth in trusting God.

But sometimes we can use spiritual language to avoid emotional honesty.

Sometimes people don’t need us to explain their pain.

Sometimes they simply need someone willing to sit beside them in it.

Jesus Himself wept.

Think about that.

The Son of God stood at the tomb of Lazarus knowing that resurrection was coming, knowing that death would not have the final word, and Jesus still wept.

John 11:35 says:

“Jesus wept.”

He didn’t apologize for His tears.

He didn’t tell Himself He shouldn’t be sad because He knew what God was about to do.

He grieved.

And perhaps that gives us permission to grieve too.

Grief Isn’t a Failure of Faith

I think sometimes Christians are afraid to admit they’re hurting because they believe sadness somehow means they’re not trusting God enough.

But grief and faith can exist in the same heart.

You can trust God and still cry.

You can believe God is good and still be angry about what happened.

You can have hope and still experience heartbreak.

You can know that heaven is real and still miss someone desperately.

You can believe God has a purpose for your life and still mourn the dreams that never came true.

Faith doesn’t eliminate grief. Faith gives us somewhere to take it.

The Psalms are filled with people who cried out to God from the deepest places of their souls.

They didn’t sanitize their emotions.

They didn’t pretend everything was okay.

They brought their brokenness into the presence of God.

Maybe that’s what a healthy place to grieve looks like.

A place where you don’t have to pretend.

A place where you can say:

“God, I’m hurting.”

“God, I don’t understand.”

“God, I’m angry.”

“God, I miss them.”

“God, I’m afraid.”

“God, I don’t know how to move forward.”

And instead of running from God because of those feelings, you run to Him.

But We Also Need People

I believe God can meet us privately in our grief, but I also believe He created us for community.

We weren’t designed to carry everything alone.

Sometimes a healthy place to grieve is a trusted friend who doesn’t try to fix you.

It’s a spouse who lets you cry without telling you to stop.

It’s a pastor who listens instead of immediately preaching.

It’s a counselor who gives you permission to process what you’ve been through.

It’s a small group where you can take off the mask.

It’s someone who can sit in the silence with you and simply say:

“I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

We need people who understand that grief doesn’t operate on a schedule.

You can’t always tell someone to “move on.”

You can’t put a deadline on someone’s healing.

And you certainly can’t measure someone’s grief by how quickly they appear to be functioning again.

Some wounds take time.

Some losses change us forever.

And sometimes healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

Sometimes healing means learning how to carry the memory without allowing the pain to destroy you.

What Happens When We Don’t Have a Healthy Place to Grieve?

We find unhealthy places.

We bury it.

We numb it.

We isolate ourselves.

We become angry.

We become bitter.

We become addicted to distraction.

We pretend we’re fine.

We pour ourselves into work.

We hide behind ministry.

We hide behind church.

We hide behind our smiles.

We tell everyone, “I’m good,” when we’re anything but good.

And eventually, what we refuse to process begins processing us.

Unwept tears don’t simply disappear.

Unspoken pain doesn’t cease to exist.

Sometimes it comes out as anger.

Sometimes depression.

Sometimes anxiety.

Sometimes bitterness.

Sometimes we begin pushing away the very people who love us because we’re carrying pain we never learned how to express.

That’s why finding a healthy place to grieve matters.

Maybe Your Grief Needs a Name

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself tired when you’re actually grieving.

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself angry when you’re actually heartbroken.

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself distant when you’re actually overwhelmed.

Perhaps you’ve been wondering why you’re struggling so much when the truth is simple:

You’ve experienced a loss, and your soul needs permission to acknowledge it.

So name it.

What are you grieving?

Who are you grieving?

What dream are you grieving?

What season are you grieving?

What version of yourself are you grieving?

What did you lose that you never gave yourself permission to mourn?

Sit with that question for a moment.

Don’t rush past it.

Because sometimes the beginning of healing is simply being honest enough to say:

“This hurt me.”

And Then Bring It to Jesus

Jesus isn’t intimidated by your grief.

Your tears don’t scare Him.

Your questions don’t scare Him.

Your anger doesn’t surprise Him.

Your broken heart doesn’t make Him uncomfortable.

He already knows.

And perhaps the invitation isn’t to figure everything out tonight.

Perhaps the invitation is simply:

Come.

Come with your questions.

Come with your tears.

Come with your anger.

Come with your memories.

Come with your broken dreams.

Come exactly as you are.

Because the same Jesus who stood beside a grieving family still meets people in their grief today.

Psalm 34:18 says:

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted.”

Not far away.

Near.

That changes everything.

So if you’re grieving today, please hear this:

You don’t have to apologize for your pain.

You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.

You don’t have to rush your healing.

And you don’t have to grieve alone.

Find a healthy place.

Find safe people.

Find a trusted counselor, pastor, friend, spouse, support group, or community where you can be honest.

And most importantly, find your way into the presence of Jesus.

Cry if you need to cry.

Talk if you need to talk.

Sit silently if you can’t find the words.

But don’t bury your grief so deeply that you bury yourself with it.

Grieve.

Feel.

Pray.

Talk.

Heal.

And remember:

You can grieve deeply and still have hope.

You can be brokenhearted and still believe.

You can cry tonight and still wake up tomorrow believing that God is not finished with your story.

Because grief may be part of your story.

But it doesn’t have to be the end of it.

So I’ll ask you one more time:

Do you have a healthy place to grieve?

And if the answer is no…

Maybe today is the day you stop pretending you don’t need one. ~OC

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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

1

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

1

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

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