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PRICELESS IN HIS EYES By Kerry Goode “Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” —Matthew 10:31, KJV I have learned that the hardest part of needing help is sometimes accepting it without feeling guilty. I can be grateful for the people who love me and still worry that I’m asking too much. Some days, my thoughts hold a committee meeting—and worry appoints itself chairman! But I’m learning to bring those thoughts to God before allowing them to define me. My value does not shrink when my needs grow. God knows every part of me: the faith I hold onto, the fears I struggle with, and the exhaustion I sometimes hide behind a smile. I can bring all of that into His presence. I don’t have to arrive with everything figured out. I’m learning to receive love with the same grace I want to give it. Sometimes that means accepting help. Sometimes it means admitting I’m overwhelmed. Sometimes it means allowing “thank you” to be enough, without following it with an apology for having needs. If you’re struggling with that guilt today, I want you to hear this: You deserve care on the days when you have nothing impressive to offer. You don’t have to turn every difficult moment into somebody else’s inspiration. You are worthy of kindness when you’re tired, quiet, uncertain, or still searching for the right words. Today, let someone help you. Tell them their kindness matters. Let gratitude have a little more room than guilt. As for me, I’m holding onto this truth: My circumstances can change without changing my worth in God’s eyes. Prayer: Father, help me receive the love You place around me. Quiet the guilt that makes me question my worth. Teach me to rest in Your care and recognize Your kindness through the people who show up. Amen.

MY WHEELCHAIR COSTS $80,000—SOMEBODY GO GET JEEVES! By Kerry Goode Listen, y’all! When I played in the NFL, I thought football equipment was expensive. Then ALS introduced me to an $80,000 wheelchair. Now I understand “durable medical equipment.” The equipment has to outlive the payments! I studied that price through my eye-gaze computer. My eyes nearly logged out. EIGHTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. For that money, this chair ought to mow the yard, file my taxes, and stay on hold with the insurance company while I watch Alabama football! Naturally, I imagined a luxury dealership. The salesman gestures toward my chair like he’s unveiling a Rolls-Royce. “Mr. Goode, this model comes fully loaded.” “So did my bank account before I got here!” “It reclines.” “So does a lawn chair. Keep talking.” “It tilts.” “So does my entire financial future. What else?” Then he explains the custom seating. For $80,000, that leather better come from a cow with a doctorate! I need that cow’s résumé, three references, and proof it graduated with honors. I’m expecting heated seats, four-wheel drive, a sunroof, and a chauffeur named Jeeves. What I get is a charger. A CHARGER! You mean I paid luxury-car money, and now I’ve got to plug myself in beside somebody’s iPhone? Tanja’s checking the battery indicator like, “Baby, you’re on twelve percent.” Well, put me on airplane mode! These bills already got my nerves roaming! And somebody explain the cup holder. Eighty thousand dollars, and it still isn’t in the right place. NASA can land something on Mars, but apparently parking Tanja’s drink beside my armrest requires another research grant. I helped put five children through college. Now I’m financing a chair that hasn’t passed a single class! For this kind of money, it ought to have a degree, a job, and the decency to pay its own light bill! Then Tanja reminds me I already have a chauffeur. That’s true. Mine is five foot nothing, answers to Tanja, and does not appreciate being addressed as “Jeeves.” “Jeeves, bring the vehicle around.” She looked at me like she was calculating whether sarcasm counted as a preexisting condition. “Your vehicle is under you, Kerry.” Well, there goes the concierge service. By now, my Cadillac expectations had a flat tire. But I figured I could still enjoy the luxury experience. “Jeeves, take me somewhere expensive.” Tanja glanced at my wheelchair. “Baby, you’re already there.”

ALS IS TRYING TO BANKRUPT ME, BUT IT CAN’T AFFORD MY SPIRIT! By Kerry Goode Listen, y’all! When I played in the NFL, I thought football equipment was expensive. Then ALS introduced me to an $80,000 wheelchair! For that price, it ought to have heated leather seats, four-wheel drive, a sunroof, and a chauffeur named Jeeves! Instead, I’m still negotiating with a cup holder. But behind my jokes is a reality that hurts. Before getting my tracheostomy, I thought long and hard about the financial burden on my family. Nearly 12 years into this fight, we’re well over $100,000 in debt, and it keeps climbing. Along the way, we’ve also put five children through college. I look for ways to reduce that debt daily. Some days, my calculator needs prayer before I do. Ventilators, medications, medical supplies, transportation, home modifications, and around-the-clock caregivers add up. The ALS Association reports annual ALS-related costs can reach $250,000. What individual families pay varies. Insurance gaps don’t just drain savings. They weigh on the heart. Families ask, “How do we manage without losing everything we’ve worked for?” I wish I had a formula that made the numbers behave. I don’t. Start by asking your ALS care team or the ALS Association’s benefits counselors for help reviewing coverage, appealing denials, and finding assistance programs. Talk honestly about what your household can sustain. Accept support. Some costs overwhelm even careful planning. Struggling financially does not mean you failed. Then comes the harder question: “How do I overcome the guilt of what my care costs?” I wrestle with that, too. I see the bills. I see my family’s sacrifices. Gratitude and guilt sometimes show up together, and guilt acts like it pays rent! I’m learning to say, “Thank you for loving me,” without adding, “I’m sorry I need so much help.” My care has a cost. My worth does not come with a price tag. And my family’s love cannot be measured by how much they can afford. This is the ultimate test of my faith. I pray, work on the numbers, and sometimes worry again before the “amen” has cooled off. Through it all, I hold on to God’s words: “My grace is sufficient for thee.” —2 Corinthians 12:9, KJV ALS may have changed my financial priorities, but it hasn’t changed my value. Nobody should have to choose between financial security and giving someone they love the care and dignity they deserve. I’m working on reducing what I owe. I refuse to reduce who I am. ALS IS EXPENSIVE, BUT MY LIFE IS PRICELESS!

What I’m about to describe is one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of modern caregiving: Why can every woman on earth put on pantyhose with the grace of a Broadway ballerina… but my socks get treated like they’re being installed by a construction crew on lunch break? Let me confess something: I’ve always had a curious appreciation for watching a woman put on pantyhose. There’s technique involved! She rolls them up, slips them over her toes, and starts working them up her legs. Everything goes smoothly until the thighs and rump roast request a meeting. Now we’re negotiating. There’s a wiggle, a jiggle, and a pause to reconsider the purchase. I’m sitting there like a coach on fourth-and-inches. “Come on, now! We’ve come too far to punt!” One final adjustment, everybody takes a deep breath, and victory! Somebody cue the marching band! These days, ALS has given me a whole new appreciation for that process. I’m studying the technique and thinking: “WHY CAN’T MY CAREGIVERS PUT MY SOCKS ON LIKE THAT?” Lord have mercy. I love my caregivers. Our sock department, however, needs a staff meeting. They don’t roll anything. They don’t glide anything. They don’t pause for dramatic effect. They grab a sock by the opening and start pulling like they’re cranking a lawn mower that’s been behind the shed since 1987 and just yank. No finesse. No technique. No anticipation. Just straight-up sock violence. The other day I had to wear knee‑high dress socks. I’m sitting there watching them struggle, and it took so long I had to double-check to make sure they weren’t compression socks. Because if they were, my already skinny legs would’ve looked like two broomsticks trapped in a sausage casing. I don’t need compression—my legs already look like they’ve been on a hunger strike. And let me tell you the part that drives me crazy: when they skip the roll‑up method, I have that extra sock hanging off my toes. My foot stops right here. The sock continues on to Chattanooga. Nobody has ever said, “Ooooh, look at that extra sock toe fabric… that’s hot.” Nothing neat. Nothing smooth. Nothing remotely dignified. Just toe‑flap misery. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there wishing—hoping—praying—that one day my caregivers will adopt the pantyhose technique. Roll the sock up. Place it gently on my toes. Glide it up my leg with precision. Give me a little suspense. A little artistry. A little “Will it make it over the calf? Stay tuned!” But no. Every morning, they’re back at it—yanking, tugging, pulling, and leaving my toes looking like they’re wearing tiny cotton sleeping bags. And I’m thinking to myself, “Pantyhose would NEVER do me like this.” All these years, I thought watching women put on pantyhose was a personal interest. Turns out I’ve been researching improvements for the sock department.

STOP FORCING WHAT REQUIRES FINESSE A Devotional by Kerry Goode I’ve learned something about life: everything doesn’t respond well to being forced. Sometimes we pull harder because we think harder means better. We keep tugging on situations, wrestling with relationships, pushing opportunities, and trying to make things happen on our timetable. Then we wonder why we’re exhausted. Living with ALS has forced me to slow down and recognize something I probably should have learned years ago: the way you handle something matters. There are situations that don’t need more strength. They need more patience. Some people don’t need you to push them harder. They need you to handle them with grace. Some problems don’t need an immediate answer. They need prayer, wisdom, and time. And some doors don’t need to be kicked open. If God wants you on the other side, trust Him to provide the right way through. We spend so much energy wrestling with things God never asked us to wrestle. I’m learning to ask: “Lord, am I supposed to fight this, fix this, wait on this, or simply trust You with this?” That question can save you a whole lot of unnecessary pulling, tugging, and frustration. Proverbs 3:5 says, “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Sometimes our greatest problem isn’t the situation. It’s our determination to handle it our way. Today, stop forcing what requires faith. Slow down. Pray. Pay attention. Let God show you the right approach. Because strength is powerful, but strength without wisdom can turn a simple situation into a wrestling match. And maybe somebody needs this reminder today: You don’t have to wrestle everything into place. What God has for you doesn’t always require more force. Sometimes it requires more faith. Kerry Goode

STOP FORCING WHAT REQUIRES FINESSE A Devotional by Kerry Goode I’ve learned something about life: everything doesn’t respond well to being forced. Sometimes we pull harder because we think harder means better. We keep tugging on situations, wrestling with relationships, pushing opportunities, and trying to make things happen on our timetable. Then we wonder why we’re exhausted. Living with ALS has forced me to slow down and recognize something I probably should have learned years ago: the way you handle something matters. There are situations that don’t need more strength. They need more patience. Some people don’t need you to push them harder. They need you to handle them with grace. Some problems don’t need an immediate answer. They need prayer, wisdom, and time. And some doors don’t need to be kicked open. If God wants you on the other side, trust Him to provide the right way through. We spend so much energy wrestling with things God never asked us to wrestle. I’m learning to ask: “Lord, am I supposed to fight this, fix this, wait on this, or simply trust You with this?” That question can save you a whole lot of unnecessary pulling, tugging, and frustration. Proverbs 3:5 says, “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Sometimes our greatest problem isn’t the situation. It’s our determination to handle it our way. Today, stop forcing what requires faith. Slow down. Pray. Pay attention. Let God show you the right approach. Because strength is powerful, but strength without wisdom can turn a simple situation into a wrestling match. And maybe somebody needs this reminder today: You don’t have to wrestle everything into place. What God has for you doesn’t always require more force. Sometimes it requires more faith. Kerry Goode

THEY PUT THEIR PANTS ON JUST LIKE WE DO… WELL, NOT ME! Growing up, whenever somebody tried to intimidate us, we had one saying: “They put their pants on the same way we do!” That was supposed to make you fearless. Especially in football. Our little 37-man squad would trot onto the field, and then the other team would come out. And keep coming. And coming. And coming. We’d start counting helmets. “Coach… they got 73.” “Coach… 82.” “Coach… I think another bus just pulled up!” Some of those teams had enough players to invade a small country. But Coach Jack Steele would stand there chewing gum like it owed him money and say, “Fellas, they can only put eleven on the field at one time.” Then he’d puff out his chest. “And I’ll bet on our eleven every time!” Finally, he’d hit us with the line: “Besides, they put their pants on the same way we do!” MAN, PLEASE! Since being diagnosed with ALS, I have discovered that statement is medically, physically, and spiritually inaccurate. There are MULTIPLE ways to put pants on when you’re paralyzed. There’s the Bed Method. I lie there while my caregivers pull my pants up. Simple. Efficient. Dignified. Well… as dignified as a grown man can look while several adults wrestle his britches over his backside like they’re putting a fitted sheet on a king-size mattress. Then there’s the Wheelchair Slalom. You sit in your chair leaning side to side while somebody yanks your pants upward. It looks like Olympic skiing, except nobody gets a medal and everybody needs a nap afterward. But my favorite is the LEAN-OVER-AND-PRAY METHOD. They roll my wheelchair beside the bed, lean me forward, stretch my arms across the mattress, rest my forehead down, and pull my pants up from behind. Works great. Until recently. My caregivers leaned me over with a little too much enthusiasm and planted my entire face straight into the comforter. Now I’m completely paralyzed, face buried in Egyptian cotton, unable to move, while behind me they’re happily tugging on my pants. They’re fighting with Levi’s. I’m negotiating with Jesus. I’m thinking, “Lord, please don’t let my obituary say: **Kerry Goode—taken out by denim.**” And for the first time in my life, I was thankful for my tracheostomy! My face was buried in the mattress, but my trach was sticking out like a little emergency snorkel. So next time somebody tells me, “I put my pants on just like you do,” I’ll smile. Unless your morning routine includes wheelchair gymnastics, a face-plant into a duvet, three caregivers wrestling your Levi’s, and a tactical throat-snorkel… WE ARE NOT THE SAME! Coach Steele, I still love you. But that pants speech definitely needs an ALS disclaimer.

“Talk to Me, Tanja Ain’t My Press Secretary!” Lemme tell y’all something real quick… Apparently, ALS came with a secret memo that said: “If Kerry can’t talk, please direct all questions to the nearest available woman.” Because every time Tanja and I go somewhere, folks act like she’s my wife, caregiver, interpreter, attorney, press secretary, manager, agent, and legal representative for the Republic of Kerry Goode. We sit down at a restaurant. The waitress strolls up like he’s auditioning for CSI: Confused Servers Edition. He looks right past me, locks eyes with Tanja, and says, “What would he like?” Excuse me, partner — he is sitting right here! I didn’t evaporate into thin air like a magic trick. I may have lost my voice, but I haven’t lost my mind — or my appetite! Tanja says, “Why don’t you ask him.” Now the waitress looks at me like somebody just handed her a final exam she didn’t study for. I start typing with my eye-gaze computer. Ten seconds go by. She starts shifting her weight. Fifteen seconds. She looks toward the kitchen. Twenty seconds. Now everybody acting like AOL just said: “YOU’VE GOT MAIL!” Ma’am, RELAX! You think waiting is tough for YOU? I’m writing a paragraph with my EYEBALLS! This ain’t Amazon Prime! There is no “Kerry Same-Day Delivery.” Sometimes I want my eye-gaze computer to have a button that just says: “HOLD YOUR HORSES!” Then I crack myself up by saying, “I don’t want anything, I’m on a Feeding Tube.” Doctor appointments are even funnier. The doctor will ask Tanja: “Has he been sleeping?” I’m sitting there thinking, Doc… I was actually present for every single one of those nights. Then: “Does he have any pain?” Sir… ASK THE MAN WHO OWNS THE BODY! And don’t even get me started on family and caregivers. Sometimes somebody announces: “We’re going to do this.” Oh, WE are? Interesting. Because apparently there was a board meeting, minutes were taken, votes were counted, refreshments were served… …and the CHAIRMAN wasn’t invited! That’s when my Southern attitude starts bubbling up like hot grits on Sunday morning. Listen, I appreciate everybody who helps me. I need help. But don’t confuse physical dependence with mental retirement. ALS may have taken my walking. My arms have basically transferred to another department. My natural voice packed up its desk, turned in its badge, and left the building. But my mind? Still clocking in early. So before anybody decides where I’m going, what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, what I need, or what I’m doing… CONSULT MANAGEMENT! Because just because I can’t stand up and walk out of the meeting doesn’t mean you’re suddenly CEO. My legs retired. My arms changed careers. My voice left the building. But baby… MANAGEMENT IS STILL ON DUTY! And according to company policy— KERRY GOODE STILL GETS THE FINAL VOTE!

The Unbroken Chairman “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” — Jeremiah 29:11 When life throws an unexpected storm that alters your physical reality, it is easy to feel as though your purpose has been sidelined. The world often looks at outer limitations and mistakenly assumes that the spirit within has weakened. But God does not measure your authority, your value, or your calling by what your body can or cannot do. There are days when you might feel overlooked, or like others are running the meeting of your life right in front of you. In those moments, it takes patience, a healthy dose of humor, and a firm, unwavering spirit to remind yourself—and the world—that your legs may have retired, but your management is still fully on duty. Needing physical assistance never means surrendering the independent authority God gave you over your own life. True strength isn’t found in physical steps; it is anchored in a mind kept sharp by faith and a spirit that refuses to step down. Your voice is not defined by how loudly you can speak, but by the weight of your character and the resilience of your thoughts. God created you to be the chairman of your journey, no matter what tools or technology you use to navigate it. When frustrations arise, answer them with dignity and a smile. Remember that your mind is a powerful asset, your mind is intact, and your purpose is completely unbroken. Stand firm in your worth, laugh at the awkward hurdles, and keep leading from the front. The boss is still in the building, and with God at the center, you are still fully in charge of your story.

I MAY HAVE LOST MY VOICE, BUT I HAVEN’T LOST MY MIND! ALS may have changed how I communicate—but it didn’t change who’s in charge. Living with ALS has taught me something I never expected: Apparently, when your legs stop working and your voice gets weak, some folks assume your brain packed its bags and left too! When Tanja and I go to a restaurant, somebody will walk right past me, look at her and ask, “What would he like?” Excuse me? “He” is sitting right here! At doctor appointments, people sometimes start explaining my body, my treatment, and my decisions to Tanja while I’m sitting three feet away thinking, Did I become invisible in the parking lot? Tanja will politely tell them, “Kerry can answer for himself.” Then comes the awkward waiting while I type my response with my eye-gaze computer. And sometimes I can almost feel them thinking, Lord, this is taking forever. Listen—I KNOW! It ain’t exactly a cakewalk over here either! You’re waiting thirty seconds. I’m typing a whole sentence WITH MY EYEBALLS! Give me a minute! One of the hardest parts of ALS is being physically dependent while remaining completely mentally capable. Sometimes family members, caregivers, medical professionals, or others make decisions about what I need, where I’m going, what I want, or what I should do without asking me first. That can be frustrating. I appreciate help. I need help. But needing assistance is not the same as surrendering authority over my life. Sometimes I have to remind even the people who love me: “Before y’all hold this board meeting about Kerry Goode… somebody might want to consult **Kerry Goode!**” I try to handle those moments with patience, humor, grace—and just enough Southern attitude to keep everybody properly trained. Because ALS may have changed how I speak, but it has not changed my ability to think, choose, dream, lead, love, laugh, or make decisions. My communication device is not my voice. It is simply the microphone my mind uses now. So when you meet someone living with ALS—or any disability—talk to them, not around them. Give them time to answer. Ask before deciding. Respect their limitations without assuming limitations they don't have. And remember: Just because I can't get up and walk out of the meeting doesn't mean you get to run the meeting! My legs may have retired. My natural voice may have clocked out. But my mind? Management is still on duty. I'm still the chairman of this operation. And as long as there is breath in my body and thought in my mind, I still have a say in my own life. Respect the disability. Respect the process. But never underestimate the person. — Kerry Goode

Trading the Growl for Gratitude When you are facing a season of vulnerability, it is easy to find yourself trapped in what I call the "wounded bear" mindset. Pain, fear, and sudden limitations can make us defensive, irritable, and difficult to handle. Our emotions can shift as fast as the wind, and unfortunately, the people trying hardest to help us are often the ones who take the brunt of our frustration. If you are navigating a health journey or a difficult valley right now, remember that caregiving is an act of ultimate grace. Many of the people standing by your side—whether they are professional caregivers, family members, or friends—are learning as they go. They are building the plane while flying it, stepping into hard situations with nothing but a willing heart and a desire to keep you safe. They will make mistakes. They might mix up a schedule, misunderstand a need, or handle a situation clumsily. But their imperfections do not diminish their impact. Scripture reminds us in Galatians 6:2 to "Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." Burden-bearing is messy work. It requires patience from the one receiving help just as much as it requires strength from the one giving it. Today, let’s choose to trade our growls for gratitude. Look past the awkward adjustments, the steep learning curves, and the bumpy days. See the heart of the person standing in your corner. If you are a patient, extend an extra measure of grace to those learning on the job. If you are a caregiver, take comfort in knowing that your presence matters far more than your perfection. We are all walking each other home, and we are incredibly grateful to have you on the journey.

“Grace in the Chaos” By Kerry Goode Sometimes life hands you a calling you never applied for. You wake up one day and realize you’ve become someone’s lifeline, someone’s strength, someone’s steady pair of hands in the storm. Caregiving isn’t glamorous—it’s gritty, unpredictable, and often learned in real time. But it’s also sacred. Every spilled cup, every tangled cord, every moment of frustration is a reminder that grace doesn’t always arrive neatly packaged. It shows up in the middle of the mess—when patience runs thin, when laughter becomes medicine, and when love chooses to stay even when it’s tired. For those caring for others, and for those being cared for, the lesson is the same: God’s strength is made perfect in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9) He doesn’t ask us to be flawless—He asks us to be faithful. Caregivers, you are living proof that compassion can be louder than exhaustion. You show up when it’s inconvenient, you serve when it’s uncomfortable, and you love when it’s hard. You may not wear a cape, but heaven sees you as heroes in scrubs, sneakers, and prayer. And for those of us on the receiving end—let’s remember that gratitude is a form of worship. Even when our bodies ache and our moods swing like a toddler with a remote, we can still say, “Thank You, Lord, for the hands that help me rise.” The beauty of caregiving is that it mirrors the heart of Christ—who kneels, who washes feet, who lifts others when they cannot lift themselves. So today, whether you’re the one giving care or the one receiving it, pause and breathe in this truth: You are seen. You are loved. You are part of a divine exchange of grace. And if laughter happens along the way? That’s just God reminding us that joy is still possible—even in the chaos.

CAREGIVERS MONTH: Y’ALL DESERVE A TROPHY—AND I DESERVE A HELMET! By Kerry Goode Lemme tell y’all something: caregivers deserve a whole month of appreciation. And those of us who survived the training period deserve commemorative T-shirts! “I SURVIVED ON-THE-JOB TRAINING. I WAS THE JOB.” A whole lot of y’all didn’t go to school for this. Life handed you somebody you loved, some equipment, and instructions that apparently said, “Assembly required. Patient may complain.” And complain I SHALL! One time, Tanja was operating my Hoyer lift while Eddie was showing her pictures on his phone. Meanwhile, my foot got caught. They were enjoying a slideshow. I was auditioning for Cirque du HELP ME! “Can y’all finish that family reunion AFTER you land this aircraft?!” Then there’s bath time. Tanja has come equipped with a hose and rain poncho while Eddie stood ready with a washpan. I thought I was getting cleaned up. Apparently, they booked me for the deluxe car wash! “Skip the tire shine, Eddie. These knees ain’t going nowhere!” And when they get to talking, Lord have mercy. They’ll leave me sitting on that bathroom chair while discussing everything except the man STILL SITTING ON THE BATHROOM CHAIR. I’m mouthing, “MOVE ME!” They’re looking at me like it’s the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. “I’d like to buy a vowel.” I’D LIKE TO BUY A TRANSFER! My guardian angel doesn’t even sit down anymore. He stands beside me wearing steel-toed boots, holding a clipboard. But let me confess: we patients aren’t always a basket of warm biscuits, either. Sometimes we’re wounded bears—with medical equipment and VERY specific opinions about pillows. Our moods change faster than a toddler choosing a Netflix cartoon. One minute: “You’re such a blessing.” Next minute: “WHO PUT MY ELBOW OVER THERE?!” We want the blanket on. Now it’s hot. Take it off. Not ALL the way off! “Cover my feet, uncover my knees, and somehow make October happen between my ankles!” I know I’ve given Tanja and Eddie enough facial expressions to start their own emoji company. But underneath my growling is somebody who hurts, gets scared, and misses doing things for himself. And underneath their tired eyes are people who keep showing up. Tanja, Eddie, and caregivers everywhere: thank you for learning, listening, trying again, and loving us through days when gratitude doesn’t come out nearly as clearly as frustration. You deserve rest, support, laughter, and appreciation—not just another assignment. We joke because some days laughter helps carry what our bodies cannot. I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I love y’all. Now put that phone down. THIS BEAR STILL NEEDS LANDING!

HANDLE WITH CARE “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” Psalm 150:6 Living with ALS has changed the way I think about something most people rarely think about: Breathing. There was a time when I never celebrated taking a breath. I just breathed. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. But life has taught me that some of God's greatest blessings become invisible because they happen every day. We often don't recognize the value of something until it becomes difficult to do, difficult to keep, or possible to lose. That's why I've learned to put a spiritual HANDLE WITH CARE label on the things God has entrusted to me. My life. My family. My relationships. My faith. My time. My opportunities. And yes, every breath. Sometimes we handle our blessings too casually. We kick around opportunities, neglect relationships, waste time, mistreat our bodies, and postpone telling people we love them because we assume tomorrow comes with a warranty. It doesn't. Something being available today doesn't guarantee it will be available tomorrow. I've discovered that gratitude grows when entitlement dies. When you realize something isn't promised, you stop treating it like it's ordinary. I don't want to wait until something is disappearing before I recognize that it was a gift. Maybe today you woke up worried about what you don't have. Pause. Take inventory of what you do have. You have another sunrise. Another opportunity. Another chance to forgive. Another chance to love somebody. Another chance to make a difference. Another chance to praise God. And if you're breathing while reading this, don't overlook the miracle happening right underneath your nose. Life can change quickly, so handle your blessings with care. Protect what matters. Appreciate what remains. Love people while they're here. Use your time wisely. And thank God for things you once considered ordinary. I've learned that every breath isn't merely something that keeps me alive. Every breath is another opportunity to live. And as long as God gives me another one, I'm going to make it count. Kerry Goode

QUIT PLAYING KICKBALL WITH MY LUNGS! Every morning, before the sun even decides whether it wants to clock in, my portable Trilogy ventilator—aka my traveling lungs, aka my life support on layaway, aka the four‑foot hose of destiny—sits on the floor beside me like a loyal but slightly abused emotional support appliance. To steal the old American Express slogan: I don’t leave home without it. Actually, I don’t leave the BED without it. The trouble starts at 7:00 AM. The machine sits on the floor while my caregiver tries to dress me. Now, bending over to pick up a piece of life-saving medical machinery is apparently against league rules. So, instead of using their hands, my caregivers adopt a new strategy: The Soccer Kick. They use. Their FOOT. Like they’re nudging a lazy house cat out of the way. Every time a sneaker connects with my plastic respiratory system, my life flashes before my eyes. My eyes get so big you could check my blood pressure through my pupils. My fear is that one misplaced kick hits a button and changes something it shouldn’t. Then we’ve got a room full of people looking at one another like contestants on Who Wants to Be a Pulmonologist? “Do you know how to put it back?” “No. Do you?” Wonderful. Everybody knows how to operate the FOOT, but nobody knows how to undo its work. These buttons should only be touched by trained professionals wearing lab coats and carrying clipboards. But my caregivers? They out here playing Kick the Can: Medical Edition. Every time their foot taps it, I cringe so hard my soul tries to evacuate my body. I’m thinking: “THIS IS IT. THIS IS HOW I GO. Not in a blaze of glory. Not in a heroic moment. But because somebody tried to toe‑scoot my lungs across the floor like they were rearranging furniture.” And let me tell you something— I’ve experienced the misery—and the awful headache—of going without enough oxygen. If that foot-fault happens, I’m looking at the mother of all oxygen-deprivation headaches. Trust me, waking up from an air-starved coma feels like someone is hosting a construction site inside your skull. I always breathe a massive sigh of relief when morning dress-up time is over and my lungs are still intact. But one of these days, I know it’s gonna happen. Somebody’s foot is gonna land on the wrong button. My ventilator is gonna beep like it’s filing a complaint. And I’m gonna be sitting there fighting for air like a fish arguing with the shoreline. I just pray I live long enough to tell the story. Because if I go out because somebody kicked my lungs like they were playing Kick the Can, I want the world to know: I CALLED IT. Y’all, I’ve played football. I understand the kicking game. BUT YOU CANNOT PUNT MY LUNGS AND EXPECT ME TO GO LONG!

I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH TO HELP YOU LIE I know a lot of people won’t agree with my answer. But I believe friendship should be guided by biblical truth—not just by what keeps everybody comfortable. If you know a close friend is cheating on their spouse, should you stay quiet because it’s “none of your business”? Not if staying quiet means helping them continue doing harm. I’ve faced this situation from both positions: I’ve been the friend who spoke up, and I’ve been the friend who said nothing. This isn’t just a hypothetical question for me. And there is a difference between respecting someone’s privacy and protecting their deception. Galatians 6:1 says: “If someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently.” Notice those words: restore—and gently. Not embarrass them. Not start a group chat. Not turn somebody’s marriage into the Sunday morning announcement before the offering! The goal is restoration, not humiliation. Matthew 18:15 points us toward a private conversation. Before you tell everybody else what your friend is doing, have the courage to talk to your friend. “I love you. But this is wrong. You need to end this relationship, take responsibility, and tell your spouse the truth. I’ll support you in doing what’s right, but I won’t help you keep doing what’s wrong.” That isn’t an easy conversation. But love cannot always be measured by how comfortable it makes somebody feel. Sometimes love interrupts what is destroying them. And let me be clear: friendship does not come with an unpaid position as somebody’s alibi! Don’t tell your spouse you were with me when the only thing I saw that evening was the Alabama game! Still, our approach matters. Be certain of the facts. Suspicion is not proof. Don’t spread rumors or approach someone as though you’ve never needed grace yourself. Seek wise, mature counsel when the next steps are complicated, especially where safety is a concern. Ephesians 4:15 calls us to speak “the truth in love.” Truth gives the conversation honesty. Love gives it humility. Your friend may get angry. They may pull away. You cannot control their response, and you cannot make their choices for them. But you can refuse to lie. You can offer support without offering excuses. You can remind them that taking responsibility is not the end of their worth—it is a necessary step toward making things right. To the person afraid to speak: be gentle, but be courageous. To the person who needs correction: you are not beyond grace, but grace is not permission to keep causing harm. A real friend doesn’t just help you feel better about where you are. A real friend loves you enough to help you turn around.

PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT’S CHANGING A Devotional by Kerry Goode One thing life has taught me is that yesterday’s instructions may not be enough for today’s situation. We love routines because routines make us comfortable. We learn how people behave, what they need, what they normally say, and how things usually work. Before long, we can start moving through life on autopilot. But people change. Circumstances change. Needs change. And sometimes the greatest gift you can give somebody is simply to pay attention. The Bible says, “Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak.” James 1:19. I believe listening goes far beyond hearing words. Sometimes love has to listen to a facial expression. Sometimes compassion has to notice what wasn't said. Sometimes caring means recognizing that the person who handled something easily yesterday may be struggling with it today. That's true for caregivers, spouses, parents, friends, and anybody entrusted with another person's heart. We can become so busy talking, working, scrolling, planning, cleaning, and following our routines that we miss the silent message right in front of us: “I need you.” I've learned that being present and being attentive aren't necessarily the same thing. You can be standing right beside someone and still miss what that person is going through. That's why love requires more than showing up. Love watches. Love listens. Love learns. Love adjusts. And real love doesn't say, “This is how we've always done it.” Real love asks, “What do you need from me today?” God, help us never become so comfortable with someone's yesterday that we overlook their today. Slow us down enough to notice changes. Give us discernment to recognize needs that aren't spoken aloud. And when someone is hurting, struggling, frightened, or simply trying to make it through another difficult day, help us pay attention. Because sometimes the loudest cry for help... doesn't make a sound.

Living with ALS means my body updates its software daily, but my crew is still running on a dial-up connection from three weeks ago. Since I can’t talk, move, or even grunt, my entire communication system relies on the high-stakes art of the intense facial expression. I am essentially a silent film actor trapped in a reality TV show with people who love to gossip. I keep trying to tell them, “Y’all are so busy talking, you’re going to discuss me right on into Heaven!” And here’s the problem. I can’t talk. I can’t move. I can’t even grunt. My entire emergency communication system is MY FACE. But y’all have to LOOK at the alarm to know it’s going off! If my eyes get big, eyebrows go up, forehead wrinkles, and I look like I just saw the electric bill at Bryant Denny Stadium... SOMETHING IS WRONG! Just this morning, I initiated the ultimate emergency protocol. In our house, the code word "Hurry up" is supposed to mean: Red alert! I am having a hard time breathing, skip the pleasantries, throw some clothes on me, and get me into the chair immediately! Instead, they treated “Hurry up” like it meant: “Let’s deep‑clean the entire house like HGTV is filming in 10 minutes.” Apparently, in Caregiver Language, “Hurry up” means: “Well, let’s tidy up this bathroom.” “Wait, his shirt doesn’t look quite right.” “Let me fold these towels.” Meanwhile I'm thinking, " Lord, is the washcloth the patient now? Does the bath mat have symptoms? Why is the linen closet receiving one-on-one care while I’m waiting for help? I’m thinking, “That towel has been folded THREE TIMES! It’s dry, unemployed, and has nowhere to be! PUT IT DOWN!” And the worst part? I live with that fear every day — that something will go wrong, and nobody will notice because they’re too busy talking about who wore what, who said what, and who’s mad at who. But here’s the lesson — and it’s a big one: Don’t get so caught up in your routine that you miss what’s REALLY going on with your patient or loved one. Because for folks like me, every day is different. Every morning is a battle. And when you’re declining, silence isn’t peace — it’s danger. I hate getting out of bed because I know the circus is about to start, and I’m the only one who knows the plot. But if caregivers slow down, pay attention, and stop assuming “same as yesterday,” they might actually catch what’s happening today — and keep us safe. And maybe, just maybe, “Hurry up” will finally mean HURRY UP.

GRACE FOR THE NEXT STEP A Devotional by Kerry Goode “…forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before…” — Philippians 3:13 (KJV). I know how easy it is to wake up in a new day and still carry yesterday’s hurt. My mind can revisit what I lost, what I wish had happened, and what I cannot change. But I am learning to bring those thoughts to God before I let them decide how I will live today. I can remember yesterday without surrendering today. Moving forward takes grace. Some days, my next step is simply asking for help. Other days, it is choosing to forgive, trying again, or allowing myself a moment of joy while my heart is still healing. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay to come to God. I can bring Him the tears, the questions, and the disappointment. His presence gives me courage to keep trusting Him through them. Maybe you have been measuring your future by the worst thing that happened to you. Maybe you are afraid to hope because hope has hurt before. I want to encourage you: bring your hurt to God and take today one faithful step at a time. Take the lesson you need. Give yourself time to grieve. Receive the help that is offered. Let one small act of faith be enough for this moment. Even when my body is still, my faith can keep reaching forward. I can still love, encourage, pray, and trust Christ with whatever comes next. My past deserves honesty. My present deserves attention. My future belongs to God. Prayer: Lord, help me release what I cannot change, honor what I will always love, and follow You with the strength I have today. Give me peace for this moment and courage for what comes next. Amen.

STOP LOOKING BACK. YOU’RE NOT GOING THAT WAY. One of the hardest things any of us will ever have to do is move on. As a coach, I learned that one of the toughest challenges after a heartbreaking loss wasn’t fixing the plays. It was fixing the mindset. You had to get players to stop replaying what happened and start preparing for what was coming. Because the next opponent doesn’t care who broke your heart last week. And neither does life. Sometimes we become so focused on what happened behind us that we don’t see what’s standing right in front of us. We keep replaying the relationship that ended. The opportunity we missed. The mistake we wish we could undo. The person who betrayed us. The job we lost. The dream that didn’t happen. The diagnosis that changed everything. The game we should have won. We keep asking, “What if?” What if I had done this? What if they hadn’t done that? What if that one moment had gone differently? But eventually you have to understand something: You cannot change yesterday by staring at it. You can learn from it. You can grow from it. You can even become better because of it. But you cannot live there. So, to my Alabama team, hear an old ballplayer and coach clearly: Don’t get smacked in the mouth by Tennessee because you’re still looking back at Georgia. Study the film. Learn the lesson. Correct the mistakes. Then TURN THE PAGE. Because the most dangerous opponent isn’t always the team lined up across from you. Sometimes it’s the game still playing inside your head. And that applies to all of us. Some of us are trying to walk into tomorrow while dragging yesterday behind us like a trailer with four flat tires. Then we wonder why moving forward feels so hard! Let it go. You survived it. You learned from it. Now MOVE FORWARD. “Yesterday had its turn. Give today your attention.” And remember: “Make peace with where you’ve been so you can enjoy where you’re going.” Whatever happened yesterday, good or bad, today has its own assignment. The windshield is bigger than the rearview mirror for a reason. Glance back long enough to learn. Then put your eyes back on the road. Stop looking back. You’re not going that way.