Kerry Goode

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Tougher Than I Thought “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8 There was a time when I thought toughness was measured by how hard you could hit, how much pain you could ignore, or how loudly you could tell the world, “I’m good,” even when you were not. But life has taught me that real toughness looks different. Sometimes toughness is not standing tall. Sometimes it is still having faith when you cannot stand at all. Sometimes it is not running through a defense. Sometimes it is making it through another difficult day with your mind still fixed on hope. I have learned that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is tired. Sometimes it is wrapped in pain, weakness, discomfort, medicine, machines, treatments, prayers, and people who help you do what you cannot do for yourself. But do not confuse assisted living with defeated living. If you are fighting something that has changed your body, interrupted your plans, or forced you to depend on others, I want you to know this: you are stronger than you think. You may not feel powerful today. You may not look the way you used to look. You may not move the way you used to move. But the fact that you are still here means there is still purpose in your breath. There is a kind of courage that only suffering can reveal. It is the courage to keep believing when nothing feels easy. It is the courage to receive help without losing your dignity. It is the courage to face the mirror and still recognize a fighter looking back. So today, give yourself some credit. You have survived days that would have broken the old version of you. You have carried burdens nobody fully understands. You have been pressed, but not crushed. And by God’s grace, you are still here. Still fighting. Still valuable. Still loved. Still becoming tougher than you ever imagined.

I used to think I was tough. Not regular tough—Hazlewood, Alabama, hit-you-so-hard-your-helmet-spins-like-a-fidget-spinner tough. In high school and college, I tried to set the tone. I wanted folks to say, “If Kerry’s on the field, somebody’s about to rethink their life choices.” Then the NFL came along and said, “Oh, you think you’re tough? That’s adorable.” But even then, I held my own. I walked around like a certified tough cookie—one of those cookies you need a hammer and a prayer to break. And then ALS showed up. ALS didn’t knock. It kicked the door in, tracked mud on the carpet, drank all the sweet tea, and said, “Whatchu got, big man?” Suddenly I was in a heavyweight fight with an opponent who didn’t get tired, didn’t blink, and didn’t care that I used to run a 4.3. But I kept swinging. Then pneumonia stepped in like it had been tagged in by ALS. I said, “Lord, I thought we were done!” Pneumonia said, “Nah, player, I got next.” I took my last treatment two days ago and I thought, “Praise God, the storm is passing.” But no—my medicine said, “Congratulations, you’ve unlocked NEW side effects!” Now I’m sitting here feeling like I’m about to throw up, got diarrhea doing the electric slide, and a stomach ache so bad it feels like a baby kangaroo is kickboxing my intestines. And right in the middle of all this chaos—this circus—this medical WWE match—I realized something: I am tougher now than I have EVER been. Not because I can run through a linebacker. Not because I can take a hit. Not “I ran stadium steps until I saw Jesus” tough. I’m survivor tough — and I’m still here. And if you’re reading this while battling ALS, cancer, MS, lupus, chronic illness, chemo, dialysis, or anything that requires an IV drip that looks like it came from NASA—you’re tough too. Matter of fact, you’re a bad ass. If you’re paralyzed like me and haven’t seen yourself in months because you rely on others to make sure you’re looking good, tell them, “Bring me that mirror. I need to have a staff meeting with greatness.” Look yourself dead in the eyes and say: “I. Am. A. Bad. Ass.” Because you are. If you’re caring for someone going through this, guess what? They’re a bad ass too. Life has thrown everything at them— including the kitchen sink, the refrigerator, the plumbing, and possibly the contractor who installed it —and they’re STILL here. Still fighting. Still breathing. Still showing up. And that, my friend, makes you a certified, undeniable, undefeated BAD ASS. Now go on and claim it.

When Understanding Takes Love “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” Colossians 4:6 Sometimes in life, people do not understand what we are trying to say. They hear the words, but they miss the meaning. They see the expression, but they do not catch the heart behind it. I have learned that communication is not just about speaking clearly. It is about caring enough to help somebody understand. Because of ALS, I know what it feels like to need patience from others. I type slowly. I explain carefully. I depend on people not just to hear me, but to wait on me. That has taught me something powerful. Everybody needs grace in the gap between what is said and what is understood. Some people speak with a Southern drawl. Some speak through tears. Some speak through frustration. Some speak through silence. Some speak through pain. And sometimes, before we judge what somebody said, we need to slow down long enough to ask what they meant. Love translates. Grace listens. Patience fills in the blanks. We live in a world quick to misunderstand and slow to forgive. But I believe God calls us to be people who do not just react to words, but reach for hearts. Everybody has a language shaped by where they came from, what they survived, and what they are still carrying. I may need a computer to speak, but God keeps teaching me that the deepest messages do not always come from perfect words. Sometimes they come through laughter, presence, kindness, and the willingness to explain one more time. So today, do not just try to be heard. Try to understand. Do not just correct people. Connect with them. And when someone does not get it, offer them patience instead of pride. Because the language of heaven has always sounded like love. And love never needs closed captions.

When you grow up in Town Creek, Alabama, you do not just learn English. You learn fluent Southern, advanced country, church-lobby dialect, and front-porch sarcasm. So the other day, I had a childhood friend visiting me from Town Creek, my hometown, and another friend visiting from another country called Florida. Now I know Florida is technically in America, but let’s be honest, once you cross that state line, anything can happen. One minute you see palm trees, the next minute a man is wrestling an alligator at a gas station wearing flip-flops and confidence. Everybody was having a great time talking and laughing. My Town Creek buddy was telling stories, and I was over there in my power chair laughing so hard my ventilator probably thought we were at revival. But every few minutes, my Florida friend would turn to me with that confused look and say, “Kerry… I don’t get it.” So I had to stop laughing, look at my computer, and start typing like I was working for the Southern Department of Homeland Translation. My Town Creek buddy said, “I’m fitt’in to go see my aint.” Florida froze. I typed, “He is about to go visit his aunt.” Then my buddy said, “I use’ta could do that.” Florida looked at me like the sentence had been dropped from a helicopter. I typed, “That means once upon a time, he had the ability, but the warranty has expired.” Then somebody said, “She ain’t even look before crossing the street.” Florida said, “She ain’t even what?” I typed, “She walked into traffic like faith was her insurance policy.” By this time, I realized I was not just visiting with friends. I was hosting a live episode of Rosetta Stone, Alabama Edition. And don’t even get me started on Tanja. Tanja has her own dialect. I call it Ghettry. That is half ghetto, half country, with a twist of Madea being properly offended. She will say something so quick, so sharp, and so creatively Southern that even I have to pause and ask the Lord for closed captions. She might say, “I caint believe you finna sit there like you ain’t got no sense.” Now that sentence sounds simple, but translated properly it means, “My patience has left the building, your decision-making is under review, and you have approximately seven seconds to correct yourself before I become a documentary.” That is why sometimes when Tanja is talking, I start laughing before anybody else does. Not because I’m making fun of her. It is because she just hit me with something so Ghettry, Webster’s Dictionary had to sit down and drink water. So for my friends who do not always understand what I write, just know this: what you see as weird pronunciation, somebody else hears as charm, rhythm, history, seasoning, and a front porch with sweet tea. Southern talk may not always be proper, but it is powerful. And if Tanja reads this? Lord, she gon’ be fit to be tied.

Life Is a Gift Every morning I wake up, I remind myself that life is not something I earned, it is something I was given. Breath is not a guarantee, it is grace. Strength is not a right, it is mercy. And the moment I start thinking I deserve these things, I lose sight of the One who gave them. We live in a world that moves fast, where people chase what they do not have and forget to thank God for what they do. But gratitude changes everything. It turns ordinary moments into miracles. It turns pain into perspective. It turns survival into testimony. I have learned that gratitude is not about ignoring the hard days, it is about seeing God’s hand even in them. It is about realizing that the things we take for granted are the very things someone else is praying for. A meal, a home, a heartbeat, a second chance. When you start counting blessings instead of losses, you begin to see how rich you already are. Life is fragile, but it is also beautiful. Every breath is a reminder that God is still writing your story. Every sunrise is proof that grace is still available. Every challenge is an opportunity to trust Him more deeply. So today, take a moment to pause. Look around. Thank God for what you have, for what you survived, and for what He is still doing. Gratitude does not change your circumstances, but it will change your heart — and that changes everything. Scripture: “Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” — 1 Thessalonians 5:18

Sometimes gratitude does not come dressed up in sunshine and easy days. Sometimes gratitude walks into the room while you are flat on your back, fighting for your next breath, wondering if you are going to see another morning. I have survived pneumonia with sepsis twice. The first time, I knew I was sick, but I did not fully understand how close I was to the edge. This last time was different. I knew. I felt it. There were moments when I did not think I was going to make it through. When you are lying there fighting infection, fighting fear, and fighting for air, the little things do not seem so little anymore. You are not thinking about who disappointed you, who got on your nerves, or what did not go your way. You are thinking, Lord, please let me see one more morning. Then I heard about NASCAR driver Kyle Busch. His family said severe pneumonia progressed into sepsis, causing rapid complications. That hit me hard because I had been fighting that same kind of monster. That will make you look at life differently. Waking up is not automatic. Breathing is not automatic. Having somebody beside you is not automatic. A quiet room, a warm blanket, a hand to hold, a wife who refuses to leave your side, family praying, nurses caring, medicine working, all of that is grace. Real gratitude begins when we stop treating blessings like background noise. It is when we can say, Lord, thank You for today, even if today is hard. Thank You for breath, even if breathing takes help. Thank You for love, even if I cannot lift my arms to hug the people I love. Everybody can find something to be grateful for. It may not be everything you want. It may not be the life you planned. It may not be easy, pretty, or painless. But somewhere in your day, there is still mercy. Somewhere in your struggle, there is still grace. Somewhere in your story, there is still a reason to say thank You. Because the things we complain about, somebody else is praying to have. And the things we overlook, somebody else just lost. So today, do not wait for life to shake you before you recognize what God has already given you. Look around. Count what remains. Thank Him for the small things. Because sometimes the small things are the biggest miracles in the room.

When You Can’t Lift Your Own Hands There are moments in life when strength feels like a memory. Times when the night stretches long, the body grows weary, and even breathing feels like a battle. In those moments, God reminds me of something simple but powerful: we were never designed to stand alone. I’ve learned that real partnership isn’t loud. It isn’t flashy. It isn’t about titles, talents, or who can quote the most Scripture. Real partnership is presence. It’s the quiet ministry of someone who shows up when your strength clocks out. There are seasons when prayer feels heavy, when faith feels thin, and when your arms—spiritually and physically—just won’t stay lifted. And that’s when God sends people who become your support on the left and your support on the right. People who don’t need recognition, applause, or a spotlight. They simply hold you up because love told them to. Scripture shows us that even Moses—God’s chosen leader—grew tired. His arms trembled. His strength faded. And God didn’t rebuke him for being human. Instead, He provided Aaron and Hur to steady what Moses could no longer hold. That’s grace. That’s community. That’s God’s design. I’ve come to understand that the holiest gift someone can offer isn’t advice—it’s presence. A hand to hold. A prayer whispered when your own voice is weak. A steadying touch that says, “You’re not fighting this battle by yourself.” And just as God sends people to lift us, He calls us to lift others. Someone near you is weary. Someone’s arms are trembling. Someone is fighting a battle they don’t have the strength to name. You may be the one God positioned to stand beside them. So today, I encourage you: Thank God for the people who hold you up. Pray for the strength to hold someone else. And remember—victory often comes through shared strength. Because none of us were meant to face the hill alone. And with God’s help, we won’t.

Everybody needs a ride-or-die. Some folks call them a sidekick. Some call them a road dog. Some call them a prayer partner. Some folks, depending on how much foolishness they have survived together, call them “my emergency contact for bad decisions,” “my alibi with legs,” or “my witness protection friend.” You know that friend. The one who will pray for you, ride with you, sit with you, and if necessary say, “Your honor, we were at Bible study.” But when you get really sick, I mean the kind of sick where pneumonia walks in your room like it pays rent, you learn something deeper about partnership. You don’t need entertainment. You don’t need a motivational speech. You don’t need somebody standing over you quoting thirty-seven Scriptures like they are auditioning for the Gospel Hall of Fame. Sometimes you just need somebody to sit beside you and hold your hand. That’s it. No choir robe. No tambourine. No sermon series. Just a warm hand, a quiet presence, and love that says, “I’m right here.” There were moments in this fight when I felt so bad I wanted to call my momma. And if she could have come running, I would have yelled, “Momma, come get me!” I didn’t need her to bring medicine, chicken soup, or one of those old-school threats like, “Boy, you better not die and embarrass me.” I just wanted my momma. Because when the night gets long, and your body starts acting like it’s trying to cancel the whole subscription, you don’t care who has a title. You care who has your hand. Before this pneumonia battle, I thought I understood the importance of having a partner. No, sir. I knew the brochure version. This was the midnight edition. This was the “Lord, I don’t know if I’m going to make it till morning” version. And in that moment, you realize Moses wasn’t being dramatic on that hill. His arms were tired. The battle was still raging. Israel’s future was hanging in the balance, and Moses needed Aaron and Hur to hold him up. Let me tell you something, Hur may not have been famous, but that man had Best Supporting Actor energy. He didn’t need a solo. He didn’t need a plaque. He didn’t need somebody to name a fellowship hall after him. He just showed up and helped hold up weary hands. That is real partnership. Sometimes your Aaron and Hur are not loud. They are just faithful. They sit beside the bed. They pray when you can’t. They hold your hand when words are too heavy. They remind you that you are not fighting by yourself. Boys and girls, we need each other to survive. So find your pal. Find your prayer partner. Find your hand-holder. Find your Aaron and Hur. And while you’re looking for yours, become one for somebody else. Because one day, all of us will face a hill, a battle, and a night where we need somebody steady enough to say, “I’ve got this side. You’re not going down alone.”

Devotional Comfortable Being Uncomfortable There’s a strange kind of peace that comes when you stop fighting discomfort and start learning from it. Life doesn’t always hand us cushioned seats and air‑conditioned blessings. Sometimes it gives us splinters, sweat, and situations that make us question our shoe size and our sanity. But here’s the truth: discomfort is not punishment—it’s preparation. When you’re stretched, you grow. When you’re challenged, you strengthen. When you’re embarrassed, you learn humility. And when you’re confused, you discover clarity. God doesn’t waste discomfort; He uses it to shape your character, sharpen your faith, and remind you that peace isn’t found in perfect circumstances—it’s found in trusting Him through imperfect ones. Think about it: athletes train tired so they can perform strong. Soldiers drill under pressure so they can stand firm in battle. Believers walk through trials so they can testify with power. You can’t develop endurance sitting in comfort. Growth happens in the grind. So when life feels awkward, heavy, or downright ridiculous, don’t panic. Don’t quit. Don’t assume you’re off track. You might just be in spiritual training camp. God’s teaching you how to breathe through the chaos, laugh through the confusion, and keep walking even when your shoes feel wrong. The Apostle Paul said, “I have learned to be content in whatever state I am.” (Philippians 4:11) That’s not resignation—that’s revelation. It means you can find joy even when things don’t fit right. So today, take a deep breath. Smile through the discomfort. Laugh if you must. And remember—being comfortable being uncomfortable means you’re learning to trust the One who knows exactly how to get you back on your feet. Prayer: Lord, help me find peace in the pressure, humor in the hardship, and faith in the friction. Teach me to grow through what I go through. Amen.

Comfortable Being Uncomfortable There is such a thing as being comfortable being uncomfortable. In sports, coaches make you practice tired, sore, confused, sweaty, and spiritually offended so when crunch time shows up, your body does not panic and start writing resignation letters. Life works the same way. My friend, Sister Bernice “Don’t-Tell-My-Business” JohnsonJenkins, told me a story about her sister. But to protect the innocent, guilty, and footwear-challenged, we’re going to call her Geraldine Left-Shoe-on-the-Right-Foot Williams. Bernice said they were about to walk into The Habitat ReStore to check out used furniture. You know Habitat ReStore. That’s where you go in looking for a lamp and come out with a church pew, a half-working ceiling fan, and a coffee table that looks like it survived three marriages and a custody battle. Right before they walked in, Geraldine’s doctor called. So Geraldine stood outside on the phone trying to sound mature, organized, and medically responsible. Meanwhile, Bernice was standing there bored out of her mind. No music. No snacks. No drama. No rock to shove up her nose. Just standing there with nothing but time, oxygen, and bad decisions. So naturally, her eyes started wandering. She looked at the building. She looked at the parking lot. She looked at the sky. Then her eyes landed on Geraldine’s feet. And that’s when the Holy Ghost almost had to file an incident report. Geraldine had her shoes on the wrong feet. Not fashionably wrong. Not “maybe that’s how the young folks wear them now” wrong. I mean wrong wrong. That left shoe was on the right foot looking kidnapped. The right shoe was on the left foot screaming, “I don’t belong here!” Her toes were probably in there holding a family meeting, saying, “Who authorized this?” Bernice wanted to say something, but Geraldine was on the phone with the doctor, so she turned her back and tried to laugh quietly. But quiet laughter is dangerous. That kind of laugh starts in your stomach, climbs into your shoulders, shakes your neck, and comes out sounding like a lawn mower trying to start in February. Bernice said she was chuckling so hard she almost gave herself a hernia. Her ribs were begging for mercy. Her bladder started packing a suitcase. She was one giggle away from becoming a Habitat ReStore donation herself. Finally, Geraldine hung up. Bernice said, “Girl, do you know you got your shoes on the wrong feet?” Geraldine looked down like she had just found evidence. Then she said, “I knew they felt unusually uncomfortable!” Not emergency uncomfortable. Not suspicious uncomfortable. Just unusually uncomfortable. That is life right there. Sometimes discomfort trains you. Sometimes it prepares you. Sometimes it reveals what needs fixing. And sometimes, bless our hearts, it means your whole day is out of alignment because your shoes are having a hostage situation. So yes, be comfortable being uncomfortable. But every now and then, check your feet.

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, caregivers, and those three bacteria who have clearly decided to pay rent in our lungs — Pseudomonas, E. coli, and Bacilli — the original uninvited roommates. After 11 years on a ventilator, I can tell you this: these bacteria don’t just “colonize.” No. They move in, change the thermostat, eat your snacks, and start rearranging furniture like they own the place. And normally, you fight them with antibiotics. But when you’ve been in the ring as long as I have, eventually you run out of antibiotics that still work. It’s like showing up to a gunfight with a pool noodle. Now, I’ve got two medications that used to work: Bactrim and Cefepime. Bactrim betrayed me first. I took it and instantly broke out around every orifice on my body. Every. Single. One. I looked like a connect‑the‑dots puzzle nobody asked for. So this time, I said, “Cefepime, you’re up.” Bad. Idea. I don’t know what chemo feels like, but I’m convinced I’ve been sparring with the symptoms for seven straight days. Blisters everywhere. Nausea. Headache. Upset stomach. Diarrhea. Basically every condition Pepto‑Bismol claims to fix — except Pepto took one look at me and said, “Oh no, brother… you’re on your own.” I’ve been so sick that even my sickness got sick. Meanwhile, caregivers — God bless them — are standing there like, “You okay?” And I’m thinking, “No, but I’m too tired to explain it, so just assume the answer is no.” But here’s the part nobody tells you: When you live this life long enough, you learn something. You cannot always predict when your body will stop responding to what used to work. You cannot always predict when the medicine that saves you will also try to take you out behind the church and whip yo ascot. And everything that can go wrong eventually does, just so you can warn the next person. It’s like God said, “Kerry, I need you to be the spokesperson,” and I said, “Lord, I think you picked the wrong volunteer. I know You won’t put more on me than I can bear, but You are cutting it real close. Sometimes I really do think, “God, I wish you didn’t trust me THIS much.” But then I remember — Every time I get knocked down, I get back up. Every time pneumonia tries to take me out, I swing back. Every time a medication tries to melt me from the inside out, I still find a way to laugh. And if you’re on a ventilator — or love someone who is — hear me clearly: Stay alert. Ask questions. Pay attention to infections, reactions, and changes. Advocate like your life depends on it, because sometimes it does. And when the medicine, the bacteria, the blisters, and the bathroom all team up against you… Remember this. You are tougher than anything living in your lungs. You are stronger than any side effect. You are braver than any diagnosis. And you are absolutely allowed to laugh in the middle of the mess. Because sometimes humor is the only antibiotic we have left. If you can still laugh in the middle of it, the devil didn’t win. He just got stuck in the room with somebody who refuses to quit.

When the Battle Chooses You There are days when the fight feels endless — when your body is tired, your medicine feels like poison, and your spirit wonders if God might’ve trusted you with too much. I’ve been there. I’ve stared at the ceiling and thought, “Lord, I’m running out of weapons.” But then I remember — the battle didn’t choose me because I’m weak. It chose me because I’m built to endure. When you’re hooked to machines, surrounded by tubes, or watching someone you love fight for every breath, it’s easy to feel like the enemy has moved in and started redecorating your peace. But faith isn’t about pretending the pain isn’t real. It’s about knowing that even when your lungs are tired, your spirit still breathes hope. God doesn’t always remove the storm; sometimes He strengthens the sailor. And if you’re reading this while fighting your own invisible war — whether it’s illness, exhaustion, or heartbreak — know this: you are not forgotten. You are not forsaken. You are not finished. Every symptom, every setback, every sleepless night is a testimony in progress. You may not see the victory yet, but heaven already has your name written beside it. The same God who parted the Red Sea can part the fear that tries to drown you. So, keep your shield up. Keep your humor alive. Keep your faith louder than your frustration. Because when the medicine fails, when the body aches, when the world feels too heavy — grace still works. And if you ever wonder why God trusts you so much, it’s because He knows you’ll turn your pain into purpose. You’ll turn your suffering into strength. You’ll turn your ventilator into a victory horn. " Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” — Isaiah 41:10 Even when the battle chooses you, remember — you’re not fighting alone. You’re fighting with purpose.

When the Heat Won’t Let Up Bible Verse: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.” Isaiah 43:2 Some days the fight feels hotter than the room. Not because the temperature changed, but because life has turned up the pressure. Sickness, pain, uncertainty, exhaustion, and fear can make you feel like you woke up in a place you never planned to visit. One minute you feel steady, and the next minute your body, your mind, and your spirit are all hollering, “Somebody come get me out of here.” I have learned that suffering does not always ask permission before it walks in. It does not knock. It does not wipe its feet. It just shows up and starts moving furniture around in your life. But I have also learned something else. God is still present in the heat. He is present when I am strong, and He is present when I am scared. He is present when I am laughing, and He is present when I am wondering how much more I can take. He is present in the hands that care for me, the prayers that cover me, and the love that refuses to let go. Sometimes grace looks like a miracle. Sometimes grace looks like medicine. Sometimes grace looks like somebody staying awake when they are tired, serving when they are weary, and loving you through the hardest stretch of the night. The fire may be real, but it is not final. Trouble may visit, but it does not get to move in and claim ownership. Pain may speak loudly, but God still has the last word. So today, I want to encourage somebody who feels like life has turned the heat up too high. Hold on. You are not abandoned. You are not forgotten. You are not finished. If God brought you through yesterday, He can carry you through today. And for everything that thought it was going to take you out, tell it with faith, with grit, and maybe even with a little attitude: Not today. I’m still here.

What I’m about to tell you is so hot it’ll singe your eyebrows clean off. Last night I went to bed feeling all warm, cozy, and peaceful — like a rotisserie chicken set to low and slow. My electric blanket was humming, my comforter was tucked in just right, and I drifted off thinking, “Look at God, giving me this little slice of heaven.” Then I woke up in the front lobby of Hell. I’m talking full‑blast, furnace‑on-maximum, Satan‑done‑turned‑the‑thermostat‑to‑‘July in Alabama’ heat. I opened my eyes and said, “Lord, if this is the rapture, I KNOW I got on the wrong bus.” Normally I’m cold — cold like a snowman with a mortgage. That’s why I stay wrapped in that blanket like I’m Linus from Charlie Brown. The girls won’t even leave the house without yelling, “Don’t forget the baby’s blanket!” First of all, this ain’t no baby blanket. This is a high-tech, wheelchair-powered, electric survival system. This blanket has more features than some used cars. So stop thinking I’m crazy for sitting outside at a cold Alabama game covered up like I’m waiting on roadside assistance. My mama didn’t raise no fool. Now, she may have raised a few idiots, but no fools. Most nights, I sleep with that electric blanket on because my body temperature usually acts like it lives in Alaska. But since this pneumonia showed up and moved in like a bad cousin with no job, my body has been going from freeze warning to heat advisory in less than an hour. I’m talking Atlanta weather — if you don’t like the temperature, wait 15 minutes. I went from feeling like a cinnamon roll in a church fellowship hall to feeling like somebody deep‑fried me in Crisco. Every inch of me was sweating. I haven’t broken a sweat in TEN YEARS. I said, “Oh Lord… I done crossed over. This is it. I’m in the VIP section of Hell.” Then came the decision of the century: Do I wake Tanja and ask her to turn the blanket off? Or do I ask her to take it all the way off? That sounds simple until you remember I can’t move. I can’t kick it off. I can’t roll over. I can’t even throw one dramatic church hand in the air and say, “Help me, Jesus!” Or do I let her sleep because she’s been running a 24‑hour nursing home, emergency room, and prayer ministry all by herself? I chose peace. I chose survival. I chose… freezing. She took the blanket off, and instantly I went from “Welcome to Hell” to “Welcome to Antarctica.” My body said, “Sir, pick a season. We cannot do all four.” But I refused to wake her. That woman has been a life saver — literally. There was a moment in this pneumonia fight where I didn’t think I was going to make it. I mean it. I thought I was checking out. Punching my ticket. Heading upstairs… or downstairs depending on who you ask. But God kept me. Tanja cared for me. And y’all prayed for me. So for everybody who always knew I was going to end up in hell… Bad news. I’m back. SURPRISE. I went, took a tour, grabbed a brochure, and came back to get you. Now somebody turn that thermostat down before I wake up in the devil’s recliner again.

Verse: “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” Proverbs 17:22 I have learned that joy does not always show up in perfect places. Sometimes joy walks into the middle of pressure, pain, sickness, grief, frustration, and exhaustion. Sometimes joy shows up when life is heavy and says, “I know this is serious, but we are not going to let sorrow have the whole room.” From my point of view, I know what it means to live with things that are not funny. ALS is not funny. Losing independence is not funny. Needing help for almost everything is not funny. But somehow, by the grace of God, laughter keeps finding a crack in the wall and slipping through. And I believe that is a gift. There are moments when the heart needs a holy release. Not disrespect. Not denial. Not pretending everything is easy. Just a reminder that pain may be present, but it does not get to be president. Joy is not the absence of suffering. Joy is the evidence that suffering has not taken everything. Some people think faith always has to look serious. But I believe God understands laughter too. He made us with tear ducts and funny bones. He knew we would need both. Life will give us plenty of reasons to hang our heads. But every now and then, grace will give us a reason to laugh until our soul can breathe again. So today, do not feel guilty for smiling in a hard season. Do not apologize for finding light in a dark place. Do not let trouble convince you that laughter is inappropriate. Joy is medicine. Joy is resistance. Joy is proof that your spirit is still alive. And sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is laugh, breathe, and keep going. Because even in the hardest chapters, joy still belongs in the house.

Holy Spirit 40-Yard Dash People ask me all the time, “Kerry, what was it like growing up with five boys and one girl in a one-bathroom house?” Let me tell y’all something, that was not a childhood. That was a hostage negotiation with plumbing. Six kids, one bathroom, and everybody’s stomach somehow got saved at the same time. You had to make an appointment, sign in, take a number, and pray nobody ahead of you had eaten pinto beans. That bathroom had more traffic than I-65 on a Friday. But that is a whole different testimony. Today, I want to talk about how I came by this church comedy honestly. Me and my brothers grew up in the kind of church where the Holy Spirit could move at any moment. I mean any moment. One minute the choir was singing, the next minute Sister So-and-So was circling the sanctuary like she had been personally drafted by heaven’s track team. And if you were a Goode boy sitting on the pew, there was one rule. Do not look at your brother. Because if you looked at your brother, it was over. Finished. Done. You were about to spend the rest of the sermon fake coughing, biting your lip, staring at the ceiling, and trying not to laugh loud enough for Mama to drag you to the parking lot and introduce you to the book of discipline. One Sunday, the Spirit got to moving. The choir hit that church chord. The organ started growling. Somebody shouted, “Thank You, Jesus!” And before we knew it, this woman jumped up and took off running around the sanctuary. Now listen, I am not judging her praise. But that lady was moving. She was not jogging for Jesus. She was not doing a polite praise lap. She was running like somebody had announced the Piccadilly buffet was closing in three minutes and the fried chicken only had two pieces left. She came around that corner flying. Now my little brother CG3 was sitting on the end of the pew. And that boy had the spirit of comedy on him strong. When that woman came blazing past us, CG3 stuck his hand out like he had a stopwatch. WHOOSH. She passed him. He snatched his hand back, looked down at his imaginary clock, turned to me and my brothers with a straight face, and said, “Four three.” Like he had just clocked Sister Holy Ghost in the 40-yard dash at the NFL Combine. Y’all. The entire pew died. We were gone. I mean spiritually unavailable. We were laughing so hard we tried to disguise it as coughing, choking, praying, and receiving deliverance all at the same time. Mama turned around. And when Mama turned around, the angels stopped flapping. She gave us that look. That church-mama look that can rebuke demons, straighten your tie, cancel Christmas, and make you confess sins you had not committed yet. Then she pointed at all of us and said, “All of y’all are going to Hell.” And the sad part is, we were laughing so hard I almost asked, “Can CG3 run the time on that too?” Pray for me, y’all. My spirit is willing. My body is seated. And my imagination still needs adult supervision.

Tubes, Truth, and Triumph I used to think strength meant hiding every sign of weakness. I’d cover up the drool, the tubes, the tremors — anything that might make someone look at me with pity. I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted respect. But somewhere along the way, I realized that hiding my struggle was hiding my story. God doesn’t ask us to be flawless; He asks us to be faithful. And sometimes faith looks like rolling into a room with tubes everywhere and still cracking a joke. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I’m an Alabama gladiator,” even when the armor is made of medical tape and courage. I’ve learned that the tubes don’t define me — they remind me. They remind me that I’m still here, still fighting, still breathing through grace. They remind me that life isn’t about looking strong; it’s about being strong enough to show up when you don’t feel like it. There’s a strange freedom in laughter. When I laugh at my situation, I take back the power it tried to steal. I turn embarrassment into encouragement. I turn pain into purpose. And I turn shame into a story that helps someone else breathe easier. Maybe you’ve got your own “tubes” — things you wish you could hide. But what if those very things are the proof of your survival? What if they’re the testimony someone else needs to see? So today, I’m choosing to live out loud — tubes, flaws, and all. Because God’s glory shines brightest through the cracks we try to cover. And if my story makes someone else smile through their struggle, then every tube is worth it. “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Lemme tell you something real quick before these tubes start acting up again and send somebody’s paycheck flying across the room. See, once upon a time, I was real self‑conscious about showing any signs of ALS. If I drooled even a little bit, I’d have a full‑blown meltdown like somebody spilled Kool‑Aid on a brand‑new white carpet. My family and caregivers had to stay on drool patrol like they were guarding the nuclear codes. Fast‑forward to today? Man… I’ve got so many tubes coming out of my body I look like I’m sponsored by Lowe’s. I’m basically a human extension cord. I walked—well, rolled—past a bank drive‑thru the other day and I’m pretty sure the teller accidentally deposited somebody’s check straight into my PICC line. I didn’t even flinch. I just said, “Thank you for banking with KG Federal.” And listen… I told Tanja to hide EVERYTHING. I didn’t want to see pity, sympathy, empathy, or any of those “‑thy” words in anybody’s eyes. I’m a gladiator. I don’t show weakness. No sir. Not me. But let’s be honest… that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I’m sitting in a wheelchair with a trach, feeding tubes, and a PICC line. Brother, the weakness is not hiding. It’s waving at folks like it’s in a parade. Bath time? Whew. You should see them trying to bathe me. It’s less like giving someone a bath and more like defusing a bomb in a hospital drama. Don’t pull that tube. Watch that line. Move this cord. Lift that arm. Turn him this way. Hold that towel. Don’t let that get wet One wrong move and they’ll disconnect something important and I’ll start playing the theme song from “The Facts of Life.” “You take the good You take the bad You take them both and there you have The facts of life The facts of life” Sorry, I got sidetracked, But don’t get me started on the catheter situation. When they first mentioned it, I said HELL TO NAH so fast the nurse’s eyebrows flew off. But now? Now my bladder is playing a game called “Guess When I’m Coming!” No rules. No warning. No halftime show. Just surprise. And I’m losing every round. Suddenly that catheter is starting to sound like a spa package. But then it hit me. “KG… how you gonna share your story and hide the tubes? Somebody else out there feels the same shame. You could help them breathe easier.” And I said to myself… “I hate you, conscience. I wish I could put YOU in a tube.” But here I am anyway — tubes, leaks, surprises, and all — telling the story out loud. Because if I can laugh at it, somebody else can too. And if somebody else can laugh, maybe they won’t feel so alone. Now excuse me… one of these tubes just twitched. Either my feeding pump is starting up or somebody’s tax refund just arrived.

What Kind of Person Will I Be? Verse: “He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” — Micah 6:8 Every day, I have to decide what kind of person I am going to be. Not what kind of person I want people to think I am. Not what kind of person looks good on the outside. But the kind of person I am when compassion costs me something. It is easy to love people who agree with you. It is easy to show mercy when nobody is watching. It is easy to talk about faith when it does not challenge your comfort, your pride, or your opinions. But real faith shows up when we are asked to see the humanity in someone we do not understand. I have learned that being right is not the same as being righteous. You can win an argument and still lose your witness. You can speak truth and still forget love. You can stand for what you believe and still crush the soul of someone God told you to see. Jesus never asked me to pick up stones. He asked me to carry a cross. That means I must choose mercy over meanness. Dignity over division. Compassion over cruelty. Truth over hatred. Love over applause. I may not be able to move like I used to. I may not be able to speak with my natural voice. But I can still choose what kind of spirit I carry into this world. And so can you. Today, before we judge, label, dismiss, or condemn somebody, maybe we should ask ourselves one question: Am I becoming more like Jesus, or just more like the crowd? Because when all is said and done, God will not ask if I won every debate. He will ask if I loved well. Prayer: Lord, help me choose mercy when cruelty is popular, humility when pride is loud, and love when division is easy. Make me the kind of person who reflects You. Amen.

For years, I’ve watched the world from a seat that doesn’t move — but my spirit still does. When you lose the ability to walk or speak, you start seeing life differently. You notice how people treat each other. You notice how quickly hearts harden and how easily compassion fades. We live in a time when being “right” matters more than being righteous. When winning an argument matters more than winning a soul. But Jesus never told us to pick sides — He told us to love people. He didn’t say, “Love only those who agree with you.” He said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” That means loving the person who votes differently. Loving the one who hurt you. Loving the stranger who doesn’t look like you. It means refusing to throw stones, even when the crowd around you is shouting for blood. A house divided cannot stand. And if we keep tearing each other down, we’ll all fall together. But unity doesn’t start in Washington or on social media — it starts in the heart. It starts when one person chooses mercy over mockery, compassion over cruelty, and grace over grudges. Truth without love becomes a weapon. Love without truth becomes weakness. But truth and love together look a whole lot like Jesus. So today, ask yourself: Are you building bridges or burning them? Are you healing wounds or reopening them? Are you standing for righteousness or just standing for your side? Because one day, all the noise will fade — the parties, the platforms, the applause, the backlash. And God will ask a much deeper question: Did you love people? Did you show mercy? Did you remember that every soul you judged still belonged to Me? Let’s be the kind of people who do right by others, even when they do wrong by us. Let’s be the kind of people who love when it’s hard. Let’s be the kind of people who keep our souls clean in a divided world. Bible Verse: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.” — Matthew 5:9