While I’ve shared my journey over the past nine months, I haven’t talked as much about some of the innermost thoughts I’ve had behind the scenes.

As I was getting ready for my infusion this morning, I thought about how strange MOGAD is. You could put ten people with MOGAD in a room, and all ten would have a unique experience. Even if all ten started with bilateral optic neuritis, as I did, their symptoms, recovery, lasting effects, and what happens next could be completely different.

Part of that difference comes from what MOGAD actually is. MOG stands for myelin oligodendrocyte glycoprotein, a protein found on the outer surface of myelin in the central nervous system. In MOGAD, the immune system produces antibodies that mistakenly target that protein. The resulting inflammation can affect the optic nerves, spinal cord, brain, or brainstem. Mine attacked both optic nerves, and in January, I was nearly blind.

My recovery has been remarkable. My corrected vision is about 20/20. My peripheral vision is within normal ranges, and most of my color perception has returned. I can drive, take care of myself and my family, work, write, go to the gym, and do the ordinary things that were suddenly impossible nine months ago. In many ways, I feel better than I have in years, not just months.

20/20 vision doesn’t mean everything is exactly as it was before January. My optic nerves show thinning from the damage. Things sometimes appear a little duller and less defined than they once did. Fluorescent and other artificial lighting make the difference more noticeable, and I definitely prefer natural light.

I don’t talk very often about the possibility of relapse, primarily because I don’t want to dwell on that possibility. MOGAD can be monophasic, meaning one attack occurs and never happens again, or it can be relapsing. The MOG antibodies that helped give my disease a name can persist, fluctuate, or eventually become undetectable. Medicine can identify patterns and risk factors, but no test can tell me with certainty what my particular future holds. Prayerfully, my attack was a one-and-done.

That uncertainty has existed alongside every milestone I’ve celebrated this year: driving again, finishing steroids, feeling like myself again, passing my driving test, and being moved to as-needed visits by several doctors. Today, I finished my next-to-last scheduled IVIG infusion. IVIG has been part of trying to reduce the likelihood of another attack. It isn’t giving me back the optic nerve fibers that were damaged in January, nor is it a promise that another attack can never happen. It has been one part of navigating a rare disease for which many questions remain unanswered.

Infusion days take about six hours, much of that time spent sitting in a chair while medication slowly makes its way through an IV. Today, while I was sitting there, the chaplain stopped by to see how I was doing and whether I needed anything. I had the opportunity to tell him my story: “I was blind, but now I see.” A little while later, one of the volunteers stopped by, and I got to tell her, too.

I don’t know whether I will ever have another MOGAD attack, whether my vision will always look a little different than it did before January, or exactly what life after my final scheduled infusion will look like. I do know what I could tell two people today: I was blind, but now I see.

Robert Frost famously wrote, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Those two paths have become a familiar picture of the choices we make in life, particularly the idea of taking the road less traveled. However, life rarely narrows itself into two paths. We face many crossroads with innumerable options.

On a road trip with my daughter, we stopped at the Mississippi Welcome Center in Vicksburg. Looking out over the Mississippi River, I took a picture of two bridges stretching across the water: an old bridge and a new one.

Construction on the Old Vicksburg Bridge began in 1928, and it opened in 1930. At the time, it was the first bridge across the Mississippi River south of Memphis. Before that, travelers in the area depended on ferries to cross the river. The bridge carried both railroad tracks and U.S. Highway 80, one of the nation’s early coast-to-coast highways. For decades, trains, cars, buses, and trucks all crossed the Mississippi on the same structure.

As traffic increased and vehicles became larger, the old bridge’s two narrow traffic lanes were no longer adequate. The new Vicksburg Bridge opened beside it in 1973 as part of Interstate 20. Cars continued using the old bridge for another twenty-five years before it closed to vehicular traffic in 1998.

The old bridge has been preserved as a historic landmark, and trains continue using it to cross the river today. Its value and purpose remain, even if it is no longer the road most travelers use.

Like the bridges, sometimes a path no longer serves us, not because that path was wrong, but simply because we’ve grown and our needs have changed. We can appreciate where we’ve been, preserve what mattered, and continue to learn from it without traveling the same road.

Scripture speaks often about paths. We are told to trust in the Lord, and He will make our paths straight (Proverbs 3:5–6). His Word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path (Psalm 119:105). We may plan our course, but the Lord determines our steps (Proverbs 16:9).

Following the right path doesn’t guarantee a smooth journey. Jesus told His disciples, “In the world you will have tribulation” (John 16:33). James didn’t tell Christians to consider it joy if they encountered trials of many kinds. He said When (James 1:2).

Sometimes you face storms. Other times the ominous clouds turn out to be smoke. Sometimes you have to go through the fire.

Take a closer look at the picture: the dark, ominous cloud is not a brewing storm. It’s smoke from a burning Dollar General truck we passed a short time later.

God directs our steps and lights the path, but we still choose whether to follow. Even the best-planned journey will have obstacles along the way.

In every class I teach, no matter how many students or their age, each person gets an opportunity to share. Even if I can’t understand them, I look them in the eye and listen as they speak. I use each person’s name and meet them where they are. No one leaves my class without being seen, heard, and loved.

A few days after VBS, my kids left for church camp, and I was alone much of the day. I spent my extra time helping children and teens create bulletin boards and door signs for the new Bible class year. I planned about four hours for the first group, but we finished in less than two—including taking down the old boards and cutting letters and large shapes. I expected the second group to take about two hours, but it took a little more than four.

The two groups differed greatly in personality, organization, and efficiency, but I enjoyed each person for all their individual talents and quirks.

I rarely remember to take before pictures. I occasionally remember to take pictures in the middle. I always remember to capture the finished bulletin boards.

Interestingly, the finished bulletin boards are visible reminders of something much greater.

It’s not about the “mess” of creating the bulletin boards. It’s about the conversations with the kids, the joking and laughter, and sometimes the quiet moments that remind me why being present matters. I’ve built this trust over years, simply by being present and listening. For some, that began when they were babbling toddlers and preschoolers.

Some moments are simply more important to experience than to photograph.

In both a room full of excited preschoolers during Vacation Bible School and an afternoon with a handful of older kids creating bulletin boards around a table, the lesson is the same.

God is often working in the unseen moments between life’s milestones. Those moments rarely make it into the photo album, yet they’re the ones that shape our hearts.

This year, I’ve had more medical appointments, tests, and treatments than possibly any other year of my life. God’s sovereignty does not shrink in the presence of symptoms. His rule does not weaken when diagnoses multiply. His authority does not fluctuate with lab results. Through it all, He is the Great Physician, Rapha, my Healer. I’ve held on to this name tightly over the last several weeks.

At Marah, after Israel crossed the Red Sea, God revealed something about Himself: “I am the Lord who heals you” (Exodus 15:26).

The Hebrew word behind that promise is rapha, which means to restore, mend, or make whole. God reveals His name not at the end of the trials of the wilderness, but at the beginning of the journey. Hunger, conflict, and long seasons of wandering still waited ahead. Before the battles ever started, God declared victory.

This name gave the people a way to understand the road ahead. When hardship appeared, they could remember what God had already revealed about Himself. Rapha reminded them that restoration was part of His nature, even when circumstances seemed uncertain.

God’s deliverance did not remove the wilderness. Israel still walked through the desert, experiencing the weight of hunger and uncertainty. The declaration of “Healer” did not eliminate struggles, but served as an Anchor to the One who rules over all things.

David writes that God formed him in his inmost being and saw his days before any of them began (Psalm 139:13–16). While we experience life one moment at a time, God sees the entire story at once. His declarations reveal certainty where people often see uncertainty.

Healing, by human definition, often means the removal of symptoms. Healing in Scripture stretches further. In Isaiah 53:5, healing comes through suffering. In Revelation 21, complete healing appears when death, mourning, crying, and pain are no more.

Perfect healing belongs to God’s definition, not ours. The Healer is present before, during, through, and after our pain. Nothing in my life escapes His final restoration. Understanding this does not eliminate discomfort. It powerfully reframes it.

David wrote in Psalm 34, “I sought the Lord, and He answered me.” He wrote those words while fleeing for his life, not when he reached safety. The pursuit of God preceded comfort and relief.

Wilderness moments often reveal the condition of the heart. A hardened heart resists what God reveals, while a seeking heart recognizes His character even when the road remains uncertain. We see God’s faithfulness as we endure the wilderness.

Healing may not look or feel like we expect. The wilderness may last longer than we planned. When the Healer is doing the work, even in ways we do not fully understand, we can trust His timing.

Surrender means releasing not only our expectations, but also the expectations others place on us. Surrender allows God to define what progress looks like. Surrender refuses to measure His faithfulness by speed.

“I sought the Lord” remains the right response.

I do not understand all of it, but I see enough to trust that His definition of complete healing surpasses mine.

That is confident surrender.

All of these experiences make up our lives and shape our worldview. Some cause big shifts that challenge our way of thinking. All are significant to the person walking through them.

These moments are so commonplace that we often give them little thought until we find ourselves in the middle of one.

When an Event Feels Like a Verdict

One event can feel like a conclusion. We might say, “This changed everything,” allowing the event to define our identity and determine our direction.

Even if these moments “change everything,” we still have a choice about the direction of our thoughts and our future actions. Our minds are powerful. The meaning we assign to an experience shapes our emotional response, and our emotional response shapes the actions that follow.

Hanging by a Hinge

Picture these events like doors. You rarely notice the hinges while the door remains still. When something shifts, you hear the hinges and see the door move. Before-and-after events function in much the same way.

The temptation is to let the hinge become the whole story. While events change circumstances, disrupt routines, and expose assumptions, they do not redefine God or His sovereignty.

The Creator in the Chaos

In the opening lines of Genesis, the earth was formless and empty. Darkness covered the surface of the deep. The Hebrew language conveys chaos, disorder, and instability. Then Elohim, the Creator God, spoke. He did not react in panic. He brought order out of chaos. That pattern has not changed.

Before-and-after moments often feel chaotic. They rearrange what once felt stable. They expose what we assumed would remain. They force us into unfamiliar territory. The same God who spoke light into darkness still works within the spaces that feel chaotic to us.

Rest, Reset, Renewal

When God completes His work in Genesis, He declares creation “good” and rests, not because He felt tired, but because the work was complete. He did not need restoration, but He modeled rhythms for His creation.

Rest reminds us that the world remains sustained by His power, not ours.

This reset does not erase the before, but prepares us for renewal in the after.

The Story Is Still Forming

Whatever you face, God remains faithful in the before, middle, and after. No matter how defining the event feels, one moment does not tell the whole story. God still works all things together for good.

God’s character does not change when our circumstances do. He remains faithful when life buckles, sees clearly when our vision is blurred, provides what we need in the present moment, and offers peace when anxiety attempts to control the narrative.

Before and after may mark the timeline, but they do not rewrite His character.

The hinge is only part of the story.

As humans, our vision is limited. We can only see part of the path at a time. What feels stable to us may not be level at all. What looks like forward movement can still lead us off balance. When we rely only on what is visible, uncertainty often follows.

That is why Scripture so often connects walking with trust. God does not simply show us the destination. He teaches us how to walk. He leads us with steady reassurance. He clears the path of dangers we cannot see.

David’s prayer captures that dependence so clearly:

“Let me hear Your loving devotion in the morning, for I have put my trust in You. Teach me the way I should walk, for to You I lift up my soul. Deliver me from my enemies, O LORD; I flee to You for refuge. Teach me to do Your will, for You are my God. May Your good Spirit lead me on level ground. For the sake of Your name, O LORD, revive me. In Your righteousness, bring my soul out of trouble.” (Psalm 143:8–11)

The imagery of a clear path is not accidental. Throughout Scripture, the picture of straight paths and level ground signifies something prepared in advance and made secure before our journey begins. A level path is not always easy, but it is secure. Level ground holds us steady even when our vision is limited and the next step is unclear.

Isaiah speaks of royal preparation in Isaiah 40:3–4: “Prepare the way of the LORD… make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” In the ancient world, preparing the king’s highway was not about aesthetics. The construction served a structural purpose. Roads were leveled, curves were straightened, and obstacles were cleared to make safe passage for the king. The road itself reflected the honor of the one who would walk it.

When John the Baptist later quoted that passage in John 1:23, he was announcing the arrival of the King. The leveling was not about convenience, but about the presence of God. The imagery of the King’s Highway took on new meaning as level ground announced divine arrival.

When we place our trust in God, we are not promised full visibility, but faithful guidance. He leads us where we could not safely go on our own. He prepares the way before us, walks beside us, and surrounds us with His protection. In Scripture, level ground often accompanies divine arrival. The same Lord who lowers mountains and lifts valleys has already seen the terrain ahead. What feels uncertain to us is not unseen by Him.

A level path is not for independence, but for escort, an invitation from God to walk with Him. He breaks down the mountains of pride, raises the valleys of despair, and removes stumbling blocks from the path. We walk in quiet confidence, knowing the road is under the King’s authority and that He walks with us.

“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” feels different when the tension is close to home. Enemy feels like a strong word when shared space no longer means shared connection.

Praying for people to get what they deserve is human nature. Praying in submission with surrender is Christlike. When I do not know what to pray, I simply say, “Lord, whatever it takes.” The outcome rests in His hands, and I trust Him to work where I cannot. Those words came from a place of strain that felt personal and unresolved. I did not know how much that prayer would continue to matter.

Since then, life has shifted in ways I could not have anticipated. My circumstances changed dramatically, but the prayer did not. It continues as I rest and recover.

Jesus’ command in Matthew 5:44 is easy to quote and difficult to live. Enemy sounds like a harsh label when conflict exists without open hostility. Sometimes the tension is quiet. Distance can grow even across the same room.

“Whatever it takes” moves the focus away from my preferences and toward God’s purposes. It acknowledges that He sees what I cannot see, knows what I cannot know, and understands every heart involved. The prayer places the situation in His hands instead of mine.

Since returning home from the hospital, my ability to serve has been limited. Tasks that once felt routine now require planning, assistance, or patience. This forced slowing has removed many distractions. What remains is time to pray. I cannot do everything I want to do, but I can pray all day, every day.

When I pray, “whatever it takes,” I am letting go of all that is not mine to carry.

“Whatever it takes” is not a demand for a specific outcome. It is surrender to God’s will, even when that will involves change in me rather than change in the situation. Sometimes the answer is peace amid unresolved tension. Sometimes it is clarity about what belongs to me and what does not. Sometimes it is the strength to endure a season that has not yet changed.

Praying this way does not excuse harmful behavior, nor does it eliminate the need for wisdom, boundaries, or accountability. Surrender is not passivity. It is trust that transformation belongs to God, not to me.

This season of recovery has brought that truth into the light. I cannot carry everything I once managed. Limitations have allowed me to release things that were never mine to control. Letting go is not weakness. It is obedience.

If you are walking through tension that feels too close, too complicated, or too heavy, you are not alone. This prayer does not require perfect faith or eloquent words. It requires willingness.

Lord, whatever it takes.

Place the outcome in His hands and trust Him to work where you cannot.

Lately, though, I have been struck by how often Scripture seems to meet me exactly where I am. Not because I am looking for meaning everywhere, but because God knows us intimately. His timing is precise. He continues to provide and work within our circumstances.

While I could not see well enough to read the Bible, I could still listen to it through the Bible App. At first, I simply had someone open Psalms and hit play.

When I regained enough sight to do it myself, I started scrolling through the verse-of-the-day section and listening to the daily thought associated with the verse. I still like some more than others. Today’s verse stopped me. Paul writes in Romans 5:3–4 that we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.

The person sharing the thought used the phrase disappointments are divine appointments. That made me pause.

What if we changed our thinking in the moment of disappointment and asked God for wisdom to see the divine truth He is developing in us? How would that change our thoughts and actions? How might it impact others around us?

When I could not see even an inch in front of my face, I prayed. Anyone and anything that came to mind was covered in prayer. I attempted to visualize everyone in the pews at church, my friends lists, customers, email lists, and even included a “God bless what’s his name” Sound of Music–style prayer. I prayed for myself, for vision to return, but also for clarity moving forward, wisdom to let things go, and courage to face whatever obstacles might come.

In Romans 8:28, we are reminded that God works all things together for good. It does not say all things are good. God does not cause the challenges, difficulties, illnesses, or obstacles we face, but He walks alongside us through them.

It is our choice to turn the hard things over to Him so He can do His work within them.

I can rejoice in my sufferings, develop endurance, strengthen my character, and affirm my hope.

The question is no longer “Why me?” but “What will God do with this situation?”

Faith matters more than ever, not faith as a feeling, but faith anchored in what God has already promised. Even in my uncertainty, God did not move. His sovereignty and steadfastness never depend on individual circumstances. Nothing thwarts His purpose or derails His promise. God remains a permanent stronghold, no matter what life brings.

Moses wrote, “Lord, You have been our dwelling place throughout all generations” (Psalm 90:1). Israel’s circumstances changed constantly in the wilderness. Their tents moved. Their surroundings changed. Their future was uncertain. Their refuge did not change.

That has become increasingly meaningful to me.

This is where faith holds steady for me. When circumstances shift and familiar supports fall away, God’s promises remain unchanged. He does not withdraw when life narrows. He does not loosen His grip when independence fades. He remains my dwelling place.

A temporary season does not mean an absent God. Faith in His promises keeps us anchored. When the Lord is my refuge, I am never without a home, even while the path keeps moving.

Vampire Ways

In general, I prefer softer lighting. Some friends joke that my house is too dark and call me a vampire. The living room has dark green walls, wood floors, and the blinds usually stay closed since the windows face due east. When the door is open, it creates a blinding glare, even on cloudy days. In that darkness, humor surfaced as a way to cope. I joked, “I may need to rethink my vampire ways.”

As the light returns, I still find myself retreating to those vampire ways. I dim lamps. I seek quieter, darker spaces. Light often feels too bright, distorting colors and shapes, causing strain and fatigue. My eyes and brain tire more quickly in this stage of recovery. Healing does not always look like charging into the light. Sometimes healing looks like learning how much light the body can tolerate and when rest is required.

Those thoughts led me to consider why stories about vampires, light, and darkness have appeared across centuries and cultures. While the stories vary by era and author, many share common themes. Harsh light overwhelms what is unprepared for it. Survival requires awareness of limits and intentional movement. These stories reveal more about human vulnerability than about monsters, reflecting how people respond when light feels overwhelming or absent and when answers remain out of reach.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Fear of the dark itself seems nearly universal. Darkness represents uncertainty. People fear what they cannot see, predict, or control. Doctor Who captures that fear clearly in the episode Silence in the Library. The Doctor observes, “Almost every species in the universe has an irrational fear of the dark. But they’re wrong.”

The fear isn’t irrational, because something unseen really is waiting in the darkness: the Vashta Nerada, microscopic creatures that live in shadows and devour anything in their path.

The characters fear the dark not because darkness itself is evil, but because something unseen waits within it. Panic increases as certainty disappears. Survival depends on light, awareness, and staying together.

The Light in Darkness

Scripture does not promise the absence of darkness. Scripture promises the presence of God through it. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me” (Psalm 23:4). God does not wait on the other side of fear. He walks before, beside, and behind us. He surrounds us with His presence and care. Darkness does not limit His ability to guide, protect, or restore. His sight remains unlimited.

This season continues to teach discernment. Retreat is not rejection, boundaries are not failure, and rest does not signal resistance to healing. Healing includes learning when to step back, when to dim the lights, and when to allow the body and mind to catch up to the progress already underway.

For now, I retreat to the comfort of my cave, listen to my body’s need for healing, and rest in God’s peace. I trust a Big God who sees clearly, even when I do not. “The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1) I pray that these limitations remain temporary, but that the lessons endure long after my sight fully returns.