Kerry Goode

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Alright now… come in close… I need everybody with working shoulders to sit down, buckle up, and thank the Lord for full range of motion—because some of y’all out here lifting your arms like it’s a basic human right… and I’m over here negotiating with my shoulder like it’s a hostage situation. Let me tell you what ALS stiffness feels like. You know that feeling when you go back to the gym after about… 17 years of “I’ll start Monday”? And the next morning you wake up feeling like you got jumped by a gang of dumbbells? Yeah. That’s my Tuesday. And Wednesday. And “Why is my neck beefing with me again” Thursday. My body be acting like I did CrossFit in my sleep. Now here’s where the story takes a turn into foolishness. I had just come back from a nice gala. I’m dressed sharp, feeling good, probably still smelling like cologne and confidence. Everything going smooth… UNTIL it was time to take off my jacket. And that’s when my shoulder said, “Oh… so THIS is what we doing today?” See, what people don’t understand is… my arm ain’t been above a certain angle since Obama was in office. We don’t go up there no more. That airspace is CLOSED. But my well-meaning helper grabbed my arm like we about to do the YMCA. Y… M… C—AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! I was Gumby. Next thing I know, my shoulder said POP, and I said LORD, and everybody else said “Was that supposed to happen?” No. No it was not. I’m sitting there looking calm on the outside… but inside I’m filing a lawsuit against everybody in the room. And for the record—this is free education—if you’ve never had a shoulder injury, let me bless your life, because this right here is important: If somebody got an injured or limited arm… YOU DO NOT start with that arm. That’s not where the party begins. You take the good arm out of the shirt first… like you easing out the VIP guest… THEN you gently work your way to the problem child. But nooooo… Some folks treat your body like they opening a stuck pickle jar. “Hold on, I got it!” NO YOU DON’T, SIR. THAT’S MY SHOULDER! And don’t get me started on bath time. Just because my arm don’t go all the way up… don’t mean that armpit get a “God understands” pass. I need a FULL WASH, not a drive-by blessing. Some of y’all be cleaning folks like you’re on a time limit in a game show. “Alright! We got 10 seconds left—wipe what you can and move on!” No ma’am. This ain’t Family Feud. This is hygiene. Here’s the truth though… Range‑of‑motion injuries happen because people assume paralyzed bodies still move like regular bodies. They do not. STOP YANKING ON PEOPLE LIKE YOU STARTING A LAWNMOWER. My arm is not a selfie stick. My shoulder is not a universal joint. And if you assume otherwise, you know what they say: When you assume… you become the ass that ripped my arm out of its socket. And trust me… That ain’t a nickname you want to carry around.

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“Handle With Care” Just because something still works doesn’t mean it’s not wounded. Every day, my body reminds me that strength and limitation can live in the same place at the same time. From the outside, folks may see movement… but what they don’t see is the stiffness, the soreness, the tight places that haven’t been stretched in a long time. And when life—or people—handle those places without care, it can cause real damage. That ain’t just physical… that’s spiritual too. Some of us are walking around with unseen injuries. Old disappointments. Broken trust. Silent battles. And people interact with us like we’ve got full range of motion… like nothing ever happened. But God doesn’t handle us that way. He knows exactly where we’re tight. He knows where we’re tender. He knows what hasn’t been moved in a while. And He doesn’t force it. He restores it. Psalm 147:3 says, He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. That means God doesn’t rush the process. He doesn’t yank you into healing. He gently works with you… little by little… restoring what’s been lost, increasing your range, rebuilding your strength. So here’s the lesson: Be patient with yourself. Be gentle with others. And stop expecting full capacity from places that are still healing. Growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like small movement. Sometimes it looks like just making it through the day without falling apart. But don’t miss this… God is still working on you—even in the stiffness. And what hasn’t moved in a long time? With His help… it will. Closing Line: Move with grace, handle with care… God’s not finished stretching your story yet.

I learned something important about life with ALS. If a machine is portable… people assume you are portable too. Now because of my tracheostomy, I’m connected to my ventilator by a hose that goes straight into my throat. That ventilator rides around in a black carrying case with a strap across somebody’s shoulder, like a little oxygen messenger bag. Looks real professional. Looks real high-tech. Looks like something NASA would issue. But here’s the problem… That hose running from the machine to my throat is not decorative. It is not a drawstring. It is not a bungee cord. And it is definitely not a dog leash. But apparently… nobody told the people helping me get dressed . Picture the scene. I’m sitting there in my chair while my caregiver has the ventilator bag slung across their shoulder like they’re about to board a Delta flight. They’re moving around the room, grabbing clothes, adjusting things, getting me dressed. Everything seems calm. Then suddenly… YANK. My whole tracheostomy tried to file for emancipation. My head snapped forward like somebody had just called my name from the altar. The caregiver kept moving like she was walking a golden retriever who’d spotted a squirrel. Inside my head I’m screaming, HEY!!! THAT TUBE IS CONNECTED TO MY THROAT!!! But of course I can’t yell… because the very thing being yanked is the thing helping me breathe. So all I can do is give them the eyes. You know the eyes. The kind of eyes that say Somebody about to meet Jesus if this happens again. But they didn’t notice. Because they’re still walking around the room with that ventilator bag bouncing on their shoulder like a purse. Two minutes later… They turn around quickly. YANK. Next thing I know, I’m being guided across the room against my will, ventilator bag bouncing on his hip like he was taking me to Petco for obedience training. I wanted to bark out of protest, but all I could do was inhale aggressively. At this point I’m thinking, Lord have mercy… I have officially become a human on a ventilator leash. Then came strike three. They walked toward the closet while I was still sitting back. That strap on their shoulder moved forward… The ventilator bag moved forward… The hose got tight… YAAANK. My head snapped forward so fast I thought I was about to meet my ancestors who were also hung but a tad differently. And the caregiver calmly says, Oh… the tube got caught. Caught?! CAUGHT?! Sir… that tube didn’t get caught. My windpipe just got towed across the living room. Meanwhile, I’m thinking that I give a little safety briefing to all caregivers saying: The ventilator hose connected to my tracheostomy is not a dog leash, tow rope, jump rope, or fishing line. It is directly connected to the front door of my lungs. It is not a: NOT A LEASH NOT A HANDLE NOT A PULL‑TO‑START ENGINE NOT A “COME HERE” DEVICE Keep yanking, and I’m finna start barking at strangers, chasing mail trucks, and requiring belly rubs before any medical procedure. Because clearly… I have been reclassified as household pet.

Not a Leash, Lord — A Lifeline Life will teach you the difference between what looks portable and what is actually precious. Living with ALS, I’ve learned that just because something is mobile doesn’t mean it’s casual. That ventilator beside me may ride in a bag, but the line connected to me? That’s not convenience — that’s connection. That’s breath. That’s life. And here’s the spiritual truth hiding in that reality: What keeps you alive is not meant to be handled carelessly. Sometimes people don’t realize the weight of what they’re carrying. They move fast, distracted, unaware — not because they don’t care, but because they don’t fully understand what’s at stake. And if we’re honest… We do the same thing with God. We treat prayer like it’s optional. We treat His presence like it’s portable. We treat our faith like it’s something we can pick up and put down whenever it’s convenient. But our connection to God is not casual. It’s our lifeline. John 15:5 says, “Apart from Me you can do nothing.” Not some things. Not a few things. Nothing. That means every breath of peace, every ounce of strength, every moment of clarity is tied to that connection. So when life starts “pulling” on you — when situations tug at your patience, your peace, your purpose — it’s a reminder to stay aware of what you’re connected to. Don’t let the chaos of life yank you away from your source. Stay grounded. Stay mindful. Stay connected. And here’s the beautiful part… God is not careless with you. He’s not dragging you through life. He’s not pulling you without purpose. He’s sustaining you with intention. So my prayer now is simple: “Lord, help me treat my connection to You with the care it deserves. Remind me that what looks small is actually sacred. And keep me aware that my strength is always tied to You.” Because this life? It’s not something we control on our own. We are sustained. We are held. We are connected. And that connection… Is everything.

Some lessons don’t come with thunderclaps or burning bushes. Sometimes they roll in quietly… wearing a doghouse on your head. I’ve learned that humor is a gift — but it’s not a license. And love? Love is patient, but it’s not bulletproof. When you live with limitations — physical, emotional, or spiritual — you start to lean on laughter like a crutch. But even laughter needs boundaries. I pushed one too far. Not out of malice, but out of mischief. And the result wasn’t a punchline — it was pain. Here’s the truth: When you hurt someone you love, even accidentally, you don’t get to decide how deep the wound goes. You don’t get to explain it away with a joke or a shrug. You sit in it. You own it. And you let grace do what only grace can do. God’s grace doesn’t just cover our sins — it teaches us how to walk better. It doesn’t just forgive — it transforms. And sometimes, transformation starts with a tearful apology and a silent ride in a power chair with your pride tucked under a doghouse. I’m learning that being funny is good. But being kind is better. And being humble enough to say “I’m sorry” — that’s holy. So if you’ve ever crossed a line, cracked the wrong joke, or hurt someone with your words… Don’t run from it. Roll toward grace. Let God use the moment to soften your heart and strengthen your relationships. Because even in the doghouse, God is still speaking. And sometimes, He’s saying: “Next time, just listen.” “Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person.” — Colossians 4:6 (ESV)

“Short Leprechaun, Tall Problems” 🍀 Alright y’all… gather ’round real quick… So there I am, minding my business, getting situated in my power chair like a king being placed on his throne—minus the crown, plus a whole lot of wires and common sense supervision. Tanja’s helping me, doing her thing, adjusting straps, checking everything… and outta nowhere she says: “I forgot it was St. Paddy’s Day! I thought it was tomorrow!” Now listen… The moment she said that, my brain—which clearly works harder than my body these days—took off sprinting like it just got recruited by Alabama. Immediately I said, “Well shoot… it should be easy to find your leprechaun suit!” Y’all… Tanja’s five feet tall on a generous day. If she stands on a phone book, she’s still eye-level with a garden gnome. So in my mind, she already halfway qualified. She gave me that look. You know the one. The “I love you, but I will unplug your feeding tube if you keep talking” look. But I wasn’t done. So, I doubled down… I hit my best Lucky Charms leprechaun voice like I was auditioning for a cereal commercial that only aired in Ireland and Birmingham. “They’re magically delicious!” I thought that was the funniest thing in Ireland. Shoot, I thought I deserved a parade. Then I hit her with another one: “Tanja, if you wear green and stand still too long, somebody’s gonna try to pick you up and shake you for luck.” I was on a roll... So I said, “You’re the only person I know who can wear a top hat and still be under five feet. Feeling the tension rising, I hit her with one more, “Hey, I didn’t know leprechauns wore lip gloss and attitude!” Y’all… I don’t know who told me to say that… but it wasn’t the Lord. At this point, I’m cracking myself up. Full comedian mode. Netflix special in my head: “Kerry Goode: Last Words Tour.” And then… Silence. Not regular silence. Dangerous silence. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me like she was calculating how much trouble I was worth. Then, I snapped out of my daydream when she asked, “What are you thinking about… and why are you smiling?” I wanted to say, “I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have a wife who’s festive, feisty, and fun-sized.” But I knew better. I just blinked twice and mouthed, “I love you.” She smiled. I survived. Hey, “Baby, you not 5 feet… you ‘fun-sized with benefits.’ Especially on St. Paddy’s Day.”

When the Joke Goes Too Far Before anybody laughs too hard, just know this whole situation started with a joke that should’ve stayed in my head. Y’all ever poke a bear just to see what happens? I did, and now I’m sorry. Now my wife Tanja has this strong belief that between my football career and ALS, my brain might be operating with a few missing screws. In her medical opinion, which she earned from the prestigious University of Living With Kerry Goode, she believes I might have CTE. Do I have CTE? I have no idea. But every now and then…I play along. Just a little. Just enough to keep things spicy. Today… that joke went too far. Now when you’re a man living in a power chair with ALS, you are what scientists call a captive audience. I can’t run away. I can’t get up. I can’t even interrupt. So when Tanja decides it’s time for a lecture… guess who’s front row, center stage? Me. She had launched into a full breakdown explaining how the cow ate the cabbage. For those unfamiliar with Southern marital terminology, that means you are receiving a historical documentary about your behavior that includes past mistakes, present mistakes, and projected future mistakes. Minute five… Minute ten… Minute fifteen… And I’m sitting there thinking, Boy this speech got more chapters than the Book of Isaiah. Then my inner comedian whispered, Kerry… do something stupid. So I glance at my computer screen and quietly hit play. Suddenly the room fills with RUN DMC blasting: You talk too much… you never shut up… Now let me paint the picture. Tanja is mid-sentence explaining my behavior… …and RUN DMC suddenly becomes the background choir. She freezes. Slowly turns her head. Looks at the computer. Then looks at me. And I’m sitting there looking innocent like a man who definitely did not just press play on a hip hop insult soundtrack. Now normally what would follow is a championship level cussing out. But that’s not what happened. What came next I did not anticipate. Tanja froze like somebody hit pause on the remote. Her eyes got glossy. Her lip did that little quiver. And suddenly my joke felt about as funny as stepping on a Lego barefoot. See, I thought I was being hilarious. But to her it felt like I was dismissing what she was saying. And right then I realized something. Sometimes the person carrying the heaviest load in this ALS fight ain’t the one in the wheelchair. It’s the one pushing it. Now I’m rolling around the house with a doghouse on my head like it’s part of my medical equipment. I look like a mobile apology. A drive‑thru regret station. Just a man thinking about his life choices. And the whole time I’m wondering… Maybe Tanja is right. Maybe I do have CTE. Because it takes a special kind of brain damage to play You Talk Too Much while your wife is in the middle of disciplining you. Lesson learned. Next time I feel like trolling my wife… I’m playing Amazing Grace. Because clearly my behind needs some. 😄

One thing life has taught me, especially walking through ALS, is that humor can carry you through some dark days. If you don’t laugh sometimes, the weight of everything will try to sit on your chest like a defensive tackle in the fourth quarter. But here’s something I’ve also learned. Humor is powerful… but so is humility. There are moments in life when we think we’re being funny, clever, or lighthearted, and suddenly we realize someone we love is carrying a heavier load than we noticed. In those moments, the Holy Spirit has a way of tapping us on the shoulder and reminding us that love isn’t just about laughter, it’s about understanding. Living with ALS has taught me that I depend on people in ways I never imagined. The person standing closest to you in the storm often feels the wind just as hard as you do. Caregivers, spouses, family members, they carry emotional weight that the world rarely sees. Sometimes the bravest people in the room are not the ones fighting the illness, they are the ones standing beside the fighter every single day. And when we realize that, something beautiful happens. Our hearts soften. Our pride steps back. And gratitude steps forward. The Bible reminds us in Ephesians 4:2, Be completely humble and gentle, be patient, bearing with one another in love. That verse isn’t just good advice, it’s a blueprint for relationships. Patience, gentleness, humility, those things hold people together when life tries to pull them apart. We’re all going to miss the mark sometimes. We’ll say the wrong thing, make the wrong joke, or fail to see someone else’s pain in the moment. But grace gives us the chance to pause, apologize, and love better the next time. And that’s the real victory. Not perfection. Growth. So today, choose humility. Choose patience. Choose to see the hearts of the people walking beside you. Because the people who stay with you through the storm… are the ones God placed in your life on purpose. And that kind of love is worth protecting.

Some Sundays feel like a comedy sketch written by heaven’s funniest angel. The preacher’s got his catchphrases, the choir’s got their rhythm, and the congregation’s got their breath—Lord help us all. But in the middle of the chaos, I’ve learned something holy: grace doesn’t need perfect conditions to show up. I used to be the guy who could mimic every preacher’s cadence, every “Touch your neighbor,” every “Let the church say Amen.” Now, I can’t touch, speak, or even dodge a halitosis hurricane. But guess what? God still meets me there. Not in the polished performance, but in the raw reality. I’ve learned that grace isn’t just for the well-dressed and well-rehearsed. It’s for the ones who roll in late, who blink their prayers, who laugh through the awkward, and who worship with a joystick and a sense of humor. Grace is for the ones who get pushed across the sanctuary by accident and still say, “Thank You, Lord,” with their eyes. Technology may have changed the altar call to a chat box, and my body may have changed how I participate, but nothing has changed the power of God’s presence. He’s not waiting for perfect posture or flawless participation. He’s looking for surrendered hearts—even if they’re tired, blinking, and slightly tilted to the left. So if you’re feeling like your worship doesn’t look like it used to… welcome to the club. God’s not grading your form. He’s celebrating your faith. And if you’ve got enough strength to laugh, enough courage to show up, and enough humility to say, “Lord, I still trust You,” then you’re already preaching a sermon louder than any microphone ever could. Let the church say Amen—however you say it. “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Before I start this story I want to remind everybody… the Lord said let everything that has breath praise Him. Some of y’all just took that a little too literally If you’ve never been to one of my church services, let me paint this picture for you with the same level of detail God used when He designed the platypus. Before ALS, Tanja and I were in church religiously—and yes, I meant that pun. I used to sit there studying the preacher’s dialect like I was preparing for the SATs of Southern Church Linguistics. My grandmother would warn me, “Boy, keep on mocking those preachers and you gon’ bust hell wide open.” But listen… I’m not mocking. I’m studying leadership patterns. “Wink Wink”. Every leader has their buzzwords, and I’m just a student of the craft. You know the classics: “Touch your neighbor and say…” “Look at somebody and tell ‘em…” “Turn to your neighbor and declare…” Now normally that’s fine. Unless your neighbor got that Sunday morning's breath, that smells like they gargled with onion soup, hot sorrow and expired communion juice. But here’s my problem now. ALS done put me in a different church category. I’m paralyzed. I can’t touch my neighbor. I can’t say anything either. So when the preacher says Touch your neighbor and say… I’m just sitting there looking like a broken animatronic at Chuck E Cheese. And folks are scared to touch me unless they’re trying to be sympathetic. They’ll put their hand on top of my hand—which is on the joystick—and next thing you know my chair launches across the sanctuary like I just got baptized by NASCAR. I’m rolling past the choir like Excuse me saints, just catching the spirit. I done photobombed the praise dancers, rolled through the youth choir, and nearly took out the drummer. The whole time I’m thinking, “Lord, this is not the rapture I was expecting.” Now this preacher phrase situation isn’t just a church problem. Coaches, CEOs, motivational speakers—they all got their catchphrases. But technology done changed the church game. Back in the day, the preacher would say, “Can I get an Amen?” Now the leader of the Zoom call says Somebody put it in the chat. So now church looks like a typing competition.” But by the time I type “Amen” with my eye‑gaze computer, they’ve moved on to “Put where you’re watching from,” then “Put your favorite scripture,” then “Put your cash app,” then “Put your prayer request,” then “Put your neighbor’s prayer request,” then “Put your neighbor’s cash app,” and my eyes are doing CrossFit trying to keep up. My eyes are chasing letters across the screen like a cat chasing a laser pointer. By the end of the meeting my eyeballs are sweating. Still, putting something in the chat beats smelling that Sunday morning breath in person. Because when you’re paralyzed and can’t turn your head away, that breath hits you like a Category 5 hurricane. Your eyes start watering so bad people think the sermon really moved you. And the preacher looks down and says Look at Brother Kerry crying over the Word. And I’m sitting there thinking No sir. That ain’t conviction. That’s halitosis.

if you ever want to understand humility, surrender, and mild panic all at the same time — put your life in the hands of a head strap. Yes. A strap. See, my head strap is supposed to be my loyal sidekick. My Batman utility belt. My personal “Do Not Fall Forward” security system. ALS took away my neck control, so without that strap, I turn into a full‑on dashboard bobblehead. And not the cute kind either — the kind that looks like it’s been left on a hot car dashboard since 1997. Take the strap off and my head flops forward like a toddler who fell asleep mid‑sentence. The bobblehead life? It hurts like Hades. I’m talking the kind of pain where even the devil would say, “My bad, bro.” When your head is swinging around uncontrolled, it ain’t cute. It’s like your skull is playing tetherball with your spine. So the strap is necessary. Essential. Holy. Blessed be the strap. But then… There’s the other extreme. Because while a loose strap turns me into a bobblehead, a tight strap turns me into a hostage. And the number one suspect in this crime? Tanja “The Strap Snatcher” Goode. This woman will tighten that strap like she’s securing cargo on a Delta flight. I don’t know what I did to her in a past life, but she pulls that thing until my eyebrows start filing a missing persons report. Click. Pull. Tighten. Reassess. Pull again. One time she tightened it so much I swear I saw my ancestors. Another time I felt my soul leave my body, look down at me, and say, “Yeah… good luck with that, champ.” You ever had your head seconds away from exploding? I have. Multiple times. I’ve lived the head‑exploding emoji in real life — eyes crossed, temples throbbing, vision fading like an old TV with bad reception. Meanwhile, Tanja’s standing there like, “Is that good?” Ma’am… I am one click away from becoming a cautionary tale. The wild part? From the outside, it looks harmless. Just a little strap. Ain’t no chains. Ain’t no spikes. Just soft material and Velcro. But with ALS, even soft things can feel extreme. Even helpful things can hurt. Even support can become pressure if it’s too tight. That strap is my daily reminder that life with ALS is a balancing act. Too loose? Pain. Too tight? Also pain. Just right? We cruising. So now when they fasten me in, I sit there like a man boarding a roller coaster. “Check the lap bar.” “Check the strap.” “Lord, keep my head attached and my vision clear.” Because out here in these ALS streets, even the things that look harmless… can humble you real quick. And if you ever see me sitting perfectly upright, staring straight ahead like a disciplined soldier? Just know… We finally found the sweet spot.

Sweet Spot Faith Life will humble you with the smallest things. Sometimes it’s not a giant storm or a headline diagnosis that teaches you surrender. Sometimes it’s something simple. Ordinary. Something that looks harmless on the outside but carries real weight in your everyday life. I’ve learned that support is a delicate thing. Too little support, and you fall forward under the pressure of life. Too much control, and you feel suffocated by it. Somewhere in between is the sweet spot — where you’re steady, secure, and able to see clearly again. That’s faith. Before ALS, I thought strength meant holding myself up. I thought maturity meant being in control. I thought leadership meant never leaning too hard on anybody or anything. But ALS sat me down and showed me something different. There are seasons when you cannot hold your own head up. There are seasons when independence is replaced by dependence. And in those moments, you learn humility. You learn surrender. You learn that being supported isn’t weakness — it’s survival. But here’s the deeper lesson: even good support must be adjusted. Not everything that helps you will always feel comfortable. Sometimes the very thing protecting you will feel tight. Restrictive. Challenging. God’s hand can feel like that. Not because He’s trying to hurt you — but because He’s positioning you. Too loose, and we drift. Too tight, and we panic. But when we trust Him to find the right tension in our lives, we discover balance. We discover peace. We discover that surrender isn’t losing control — it’s placing control in better hands. So now my prayer isn’t “Lord, remove every hard thing.” My prayer is, “Lord, hold me steady. Adjust what needs adjusting. Keep me upright so I can see what You’re doing.” Because even in the humbling moments… even in the pressure… even in the panic… There is purpose. And when you finally feel steady again — when your vision clears and your heart settles — you realize something powerful: You didn’t hold yourself up. God did. And that sweet spot? That’s where strength and surrender meet.

If you’ve ever believed in miracles, you’re gonna love this. So, pause whatever you’re doing — I want you to feel this the way I felt it. Eleven years ago, when this ALS journey first started, I stood in front of a room full of people and said something that came straight from the deepest place in my soul. I said: “Your support fighting ALS may not save my life… but it might help my kids, or it might save someone you love.” Back then, I believed that with everything in me. At the time, ALS felt like a one-way road. The best we could hope for was helping the next family, the next generation, the next person diagnosed with this disease. But something happened last night that shook me—in the best possible way. While attending the Night of Hope Gala, researchers shared news that a treatment has been discovered for a rare form of ALS. Now let that sink in for a second. For years we’ve heard about progress… but this was different. This was real movement. And here’s the powerful part. When scientists solve a rare form of a disease, it often unlocks the door to understanding the more common forms. In other words, they’re not just knocking on the door of a cure anymore… they’re starting to turn the handle. For the first time since my diagnosis 11 years ago, I can honestly say this: Hope feels closer than it has ever been. All those donations… All those prayers… All those golf tournaments… All those people sharing posts, showing up, and refusing to give up… You didn’t just keep me encouraged. You helped move science forward. Now we’re standing on the edge of something incredible. But the truth is, breakthroughs don’t cross the finish line without fuel. That’s where you come in. If you’ve ever prayed for me… If you’ve ever laughed at one of my stories… If you’ve ever been inspired by this journey… If you’ve ever said, “Kerry, keep fighting”… Then I’m asking you — from the deepest place of gratitude and hope — to help us cross this finish line. Your support doesn’t just help me. It helps families everywhere who are facing ALS and wondering if tomorrow will look different. And for the first time in a long time… Tomorrow really might. If you feel led, please support the mission by donating to the Kerry Goode Foundation: 👉 GoodeFoundation.org/donate Together we can push this fight across the finish line. And who knows… That speech I gave 11 years ago might turn out to be wrong in the most beautiful way possible. Because your support just might help save my life too. Let’s finish this together. Let’s make ALS a disease of the past. Let’s turn “almost” into “we did it.” Thank you for keeping the flame of hope burning. — Kerry Goode

Here’s the devotional again — now complete with a Bible verse that fits the message perfectly and lifts the whole thing up. When Hope Grows Louder Scripture: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV) There are seasons when your body starts sending signals you can’t ignore. Something feels different. Something feels off. And before anyone else notices, you sense the shift. It’s easy in those moments to let fear take the lead — to wonder what’s happening, why it’s happening, and what comes next. But here’s what I’ve learned: Even when your body changes, God does not. He is steady when you feel unsteady. He is strong when you feel weak. He is present when you feel unsure. Sometimes God allows the body to whisper so the soul can lean in closer. Not because He’s forgotten you, but because He’s preparing you — strengthening you in ways you didn’t know you needed. There came a point in my own journey when I couldn’t pretend everything was fine. My strength shifted. My abilities shifted. My normal shifted. And when life starts changing faster than you can understand, it’s easy to feel like hope is slipping through your fingers. But God has a way of sending reminders right when you need them most — a breakthrough, a word of encouragement, a moment of clarity, a spark of hope. And hope, even when it starts small, has a way of growing into something powerful. Hope doesn’t deny reality — it declares that reality doesn’t get the final say. So if you’re facing something today that feels bigger than you… If your body is changing… If your life is shifting… If you’re walking through something you never asked for… Hear this: You are not alone. God is not finished. And there is more ahead than what you’ve lost behind. Hold on to hope. Guard it. Feed it. Let it grow. Because the same God who brings breakthroughs in one place can bring breakthroughs everywhere. And I believe — deeply — that one day we will see a cure for every form of ALS. Until then, we keep going. With faith. With courage. With hope that refuses to quit.

🥧 Pi Day the Southern Way: Math, Mama’s Pies, and Dodging Snakes Lemme tell y’all somethin’ real quick… Today is Pi Day — the day math people celebrate that number 3.14 and all the fancy circle calculations that go with it. But where I come from in Alabama, we heard “Pi Day” and immediately translated it into proper Southern English: “Oh… y’all mean PIE day.” Because the only thing we measure with 3.14 around here is how many slices you can sneak before somebody notices the pie pan getting light. Now growing up, my mama didn’t play about desserts. On any given weekend that kitchen smelled like heaven had opened a bakery franchise. Pi Day meant one thing and one thing only: Pies so good they’d make you slap somebody you love. My mama baked pies like she was trying to win souls. Sweet potato pies that tasted like a warm hug from Jesus Buttermilk pies smoother than a deacon’s pickup line Pecan pies that could fix a broken marriage Banana pudding that made grown men cry But if I’m telling the truth — and today feels like a good day for honesty — my favorite was always my grandmother’s blackberry pie with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top. Lord have mercy. That pie was so good it could make a Baptist shout and a Methodist consider switching denominations. But here was the catch… We had to go pick the blackberries ourselves. Now Grandma was a wise woman. She didn’t just raise kids… she managed chaos. She’d say real sweet like, “Y’all want blackberry pie?” And me, my brothers, and my cousins would yell: “YES MA’AM!” Then she’d hand us a bucket and say, “Well go on out there and pick some berries then.” What we didn’t realize at the time was this wasn’t just about dessert… This was strategic child management. Because Grandma knew something important: A group of Goode boys with nothing to do was a public safety hazard. So off we went into the woods and fields like a low-budget episode of Survivor: Town Creek Edition. We’d be fighting through blackberry bushes getting scratched up by thorns, swatting mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds, and trying not to eat more berries than we actually picked. And it never failed. Every single time… Somebody would yell: “SNAKE!!!” And instantly five boys would turn into Olympic sprinters. I’m talking 4.3 forty-yard dash speed. You ever seen kids run while still holding blackberry buckets? It looked like a relay race sponsored by pure panic. Half the time we didn’t even know if it was a snake. It could’ve been a stick. But in the woods you don’t stop to investigate… You evacuate immediately. Eventually we’d bring those berries back to Grandma. She’d bake that blackberry pie, scoop that vanilla ice cream on top, and we’d sit there eating like kings who had just conquered the wilderness. Meanwhile Grandma would just smile, knowing she had successfully accomplished three things: • Got fresh blackberries • Kept a bunch of wild boys busy • Avoided having to give out a beating that day That woman was running advanced behavioral management strategies before psychology books ever caught up. So today while mathematicians celebrate 3.1415926535… I’m celebrating a different kind of formula: Blackberry Pie + Vanilla Ice Cream + Surviving the Woods Without Getting Bit by a Snake = A Perfect Day. Now that, my friends… is what I call real Southern math. So let me ask y’all: What’s YOUR favorite pie? 🥧

Now I’ve had some long days in my life, but this one tried to turn me into a human pot roast. My internal thermostat filed for early retirement and left me stranded in the Sahara… also known as my bathroom. If you ever want to test your patience, your faith, and your ability to not scream through your eyeballs—try being paralyzed, mute, and stuck in a shower chair while your body temperature decides to reenact the surface of the sun. Here’s the cruel joke of ALS: the hardest part isn’t not being able to talk—it’s not being able to tell somebody you’re in pain or you need something right now. My body usually runs colder than a penguin’s lunchbox, but on this particular day? The needle swung the other way. I went from “Where’s my blanket?” to “Is the sun renting space in my chest?” in about three seconds flat. I felt like I was one missed commercial break away from passing out. Sitting there with my head hanging down like a defeated sunflower, trying to get my caregivers’ attention. They finally noticed me—hallelujah!—but instead of jumping into action, they started playing Wheel of Misfortune: ALS Edition. “Are you cold?” “Are you dizzy?” “Do you need your foot moved?” “Do you want the radio on?” They’re guessing like it’s Family Feud and the top answer is “Something’s Wrong With Kerry.” Then they move to the front of me and bend over, trying to read my lips like they’re decoding a hostage video. I mouth, very clearly in my own mind, “Hold my head up.” Because, you know, gravity and lips don’t cooperate. The only word they catch is “up.” So naturally, the response is… they open the door. Now, to be fair, opening the door helps. I am in the hottest room in the house, and fresh air feels like a tiny blessing. But the communication about me being hot stops right there. I’m still cooking like a rotisserie chicken with feelings. I keep mouthing. They keep guessing. Then—this is my favorite part—they start folding towels and cleaning the bathroom like we’re in the middle of a HGTV episode titled “Fixer Upper: The Man Is Melting.” Meanwhile, I’m over here mouthing, “GET ME OUT OF THIS CHAIR!” more times than I’ve got fingers, toes, and imaginary friends. But apparently, towel-folding takes priority over rescuing a man who’s one degree away from spontaneous combustion. I swear, if I had a megaphone, I’d yell, “I’M HOTTER THAN A GREASE FIRE IN JULY!” But alas, I’m stuck with lip gymnastics and dramatic eye rolls. Here’s the thing: if your patient is non-verbal and they’re putting in Olympic-level effort to communicate, it’s not for fun. It’s urgent. It’s serious. It’s not a guessing game—it’s a rescue mission. Step one: Hold my head up. Step two: Get in front of me. Step three: Listen like your life depends on it—because mine might. And if all else fails, just remember: if I start mouthing like I’m auditioning for a silent soap opera, it’s probably not about towel placement. It’s about survival. Now excuse me while I go mentally install a neon sign that says, “I’M HOT. GET ME OUT!” Maybe then I’ll beat the towel-folding Olympics.

There are moments in life when your body, your voice, and your circumstances all decide to take the day off at the same time. Living with ALS has taught me that some of the hardest battles aren’t the big dramatic ones people see. Sometimes the toughest moments are the quiet ones—when you need help, when you’re uncomfortable, or when you’re trying your best to communicate but the words just won’t come out. In those moments, patience becomes more than a virtue—it becomes survival. What I’ve learned is that God often shows up in the spaces where we feel the most helpless. When our strength runs out, His presence doesn’t. When our voice is gone, our prayers still reach heaven. Scripture reminds us of this truth in Psalm 46:1: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” Notice it doesn’t say He’s sometimes present. It says ever-present. There have been times when all I could do was sit there and breathe, trusting that somehow God was still in the room. Even when things felt chaotic, even when communication broke down, even when my body felt like it was working against me, God had not stepped away. Living with a serious illness teaches you something powerful about people too. It reminds you how important it is to slow down, to pay attention, and to truly listen to one another. Sometimes the greatest act of love isn’t saying the right words—it’s simply noticing that someone needs help and responding with compassion. We all have moments in life where we feel unheard, unseen, or misunderstood. But here’s the encouragement I hold onto: God never misses those moments. He sees every struggle, every silent prayer, every effort to keep going when things feel overwhelming. And because of that, we can keep moving forward with hope. So today, if you’re feeling overwhelmed, misunderstood, or worn down by circumstances beyond your control, remember this: you are not facing it alone. God is still present. His strength is still available. And His grace is still enough for whatever this day brings. Just keep breathing. God is closer than you think.

Life has a funny way of putting us in moments where it feels like the door just won’t open. You push the button, try again, try harder, and nothing happens. In those moments it’s easy to panic. Your mind starts racing, your heart starts pounding, and before long you’re convinced that everything is falling apart. I’ve learned something about moments like that. Most of the time the problem isn’t as big as it feels. Living with ALS has taught me a lot about that kind of perspective. There are plenty of days when something small feels overwhelming. When your body no longer cooperates the way it once did, even simple things can feel like locked doors. But over time I’ve realized something important: panic never solves the problem, and fear rarely tells the truth. When we calm down, step back, and look again, we often discover that the answer was closer than we thought. Scripture reminds us in Psalm 46:10, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Notice what that verse doesn’t say. It doesn’t say “panic and figure it out.” It says be still. Stillness allows us to hear God’s voice above the noise of our worry. When we slow down long enough to trust Him, the path forward becomes clearer. Many times in life we think we’re stuck because a door won’t open, when in reality God may simply be teaching us to pause, breathe, and trust Him to guide us through. I’ve also learned that growth often comes in those uncomfortable moments. What feels like frustration in the moment can become wisdom later. Sometimes the very situations that make us feel helpless are the ones that remind us that we were never meant to handle everything on our own. God doesn’t ask us to have all the answers. He asks us to trust Him. So the next time life feels stuck and the door won’t open, remember this: stay calm, keep the faith, and look again. God has a way of revealing solutions right when we need them. And when He does, you’ll realize something powerful. You were never really locked out.

Now hold your mule, ‘cause this one’s a doozy… When a daughter calls home from college hysterically crying, every father’s heart drops straight into his socks. And when you’re an ALS dad who can’t jump up and go see what’s wrong, that heart doesn’t just drop — it free‑falls like a bowling ball off a balcony. So there I was, minding my business, when my wife Tanja’s phone rings. She looks at the screen, sees our daughter’s name, and suddenly her whole face turns into the “Lord, fix it” emoji. She answers, and immediately I hear sobbing, the kind that sounds like somebody stepped on a puppy. Tanja goes into another room — which is NEVER a good sign. When a woman leaves the room to take a call, it means one of two things: Somebody’s pregnant Somebody’s in jail Either way, my blood pressure went up. Then I hear Tanja say the words that make every father’s soul leave his body: “Hold on baby… calm down… stop crying… I can’t understand you.” And here’s the hard part about ALS… In moments like that, the instinct of a father is to jump up, grab the keys, and go fix the problem. But ALS looks at that instinct and says, “Sir… sit back down.” Now listen… When I hear my daughter crying like that, my father alarm system goes off like a tornado siren in Alabama. Inside my head I’m thinking: Oh Lord… what happened? Is she hurt? Did somebody mess with my baby? Did her car break down? Did she run out of money? Did she fail a test? My mind is running through every possible disaster scenario known to man. Did she join a cult? Did she get kidnapped but somehow still managed to call home? Meanwhile, Tanja is in the other room sounding like a hostage negotiator. I’m helpless. I’m left out. I’m useless. I’m one “Lord, take me now” away from a full‑blown Lifetime movie. Finally Tanja comes back into the room. I’m looking at her like a man waiting for a doctor to deliver bad news. She looks at me. Pauses. Then says… “You are not going to believe this.” Turns out our daughter was on the way to class to take an exam. She gets to her car. Pushes the key fob. Nothing. Pushes it again. Still nothing. The battery in the key fob was dead. Meanwhile, she didn’t know every key fob has a hidden key in it. This girl had a Category 5 emotional meltdown… over a battery. A BATTERY. I went from terrified… to relieved… to laughing so hard I almost needed medical attention. And this is the same child who swears she’s grown. GROWN WHERE? Grown HOW? If you can’t open a car door without calling your mama like the world is ending, you are not grown — you are renting adulthood on a trial basis. She made it to her exam. Her come‑apart ended. And I learned something important: Even when I can’t physically help… I can still laugh. And Lord knows, with these kids, I better keep laughing.