I love to hike where I live in Colorado. Growing up in Montana, I’ve always been an outdoors person and was outside all the time. Colorado has some amazing hiking spots, but our favorite area is around the mountain city of Conifer.
Conifer sits where the Front Range starts to really feel like mountains. Tall pine and fir trees crowd the hillsides. Dirt trails wind through thick forests, then suddenly open up to wide views of layered blue ridgelines and incredible peaks in the distance.
There are many small mountain towns that aren’t too far from Denver, but they still give you everything—from a challenging all-day hike that climbs steadily to a rocky overlook, to a short walk in the woods where you can hear the wind in the trees while you hang out with friends.
The Table at Starbucks and the Mountain I Didn’t Choose
The picture above is of the exact spot in the Starbucks where I wrote the last chapter of my book, Holy Crap—and where my friend Aaron and I normally stop when we finish a hike in Conifer.
That little corner table, with the big window looking out toward the foothills, became more than just a place to sit with a laptop and a cup of chai tea. I chose it to wrap up my book as a physical reminder of how God helped me traverse my incredible “mountain.”
My book was never meant to make me famous or rich. It was written to share my story so that—even in the face of what feels like insurmountable odds—maybe one person would hang on for just one more day. And even more importantly, I hoped they might take a step toward forgiving God if they’ve felt the same kind of anger toward Him that I had when I got sick.
That’s really where the trail of my story shifts—from a literal trail through Colorado pines to a long, painful climb I never wanted to take.
When the World Shrinks to a Couch and a Doctor’s Office
When I was sick with my eye condition, I didn’t spend a lot of time outside. Honestly, I didn’t spend a lot of time anywhere besides a doctor’s office or on the couch in our townhome.
For four years, I mostly laid around waiting for the worst to happen.
Those were dark days that filled my mind with questions about whether my life even had value. I started doing things like taking showers with my eyes closed so I could “practice” for when I went blind. That was where my mind lived—trying to brace myself for a future I was sure was coming.
It was a completely different landscape than the open, wide, hopeful feeling I get on a trail in Conifer. Instead of trees and sky, it was four walls, fear, and the sound of my own thoughts echoing around inside my head.
Beautifully Horrific, Gloriously Life-Altering
Of course, the thing I was most afraid of—total blindness—never happened.
Now I’m on the other side of that beautifully horrific and gloriously life-altering season. I use both of those words on purpose. I would never want to live through those years again. At the same time, I know I could not be who I am now in Christ without them.
I needed that time alone with myself to realize something hard and honest: I only knew God for everyone else—and not for me.
The wilderness I walked through on that couch was every bit as real as any stretch of rocky trail in Colorado. It stripped me down. It exposed what I truly believed. It forced me to see where my faith was rooted—and where it wasn’t.
The Three “Truths” That Were Suffocating Me
One of the challenges with how I was raised to believe was this idea: if I couldn’t believe or speak something over my life, then it absolutely would not happen. It was like I was in charge of my own destiny by how I spoke “God” over myself.
But at my lowest point, the things I was speaking were all wrapped up in what I now call my three truths at the time:
- Pills – I was always trying some new medication that never worked. Bottles lined our shelves and counters.
- Ills – I watched both of my eyes get worse and my vision slowly slip away. Every eye chart felt like a step backward.
- Bills – On top of that, we were drowning in medical bills. At a few different points in my health journey, we almost lost our house.
Those three things—Pills, Ills, and Bills—felt more real to me than God did. They shaped my words, my outlook, and my hope, or lack of it.
The Church That Held the Rope
When I got sick, we were on staff as pastors at Orchard Road Christian Center in south Denver, under the ministry of Marilyn Hickey and her kids—her daughter, Sarah, and her son-in-law, Reece Bowling.
I can say without a doubt that our church was my lifeline through all of it. From beginning to end, I was shown nothing but support.
I remember one Sunday when Pastor Marilyn had me stand up in service. She said she was going to be one of my “four crazy faith” friends, like in Luke 5:18–26. She committed to pray for me every single day.
Think about that. Marilyn “God’s General” Hickey committed to pray for me.
She was traveling all over the world, speaking at conferences to hundreds of thousands of people, running a television ministry, and doing everything that comes with her position—yet she took time to pray for me.
I remember getting phone calls from Marilyn in the middle of the night because she was in South Korea speaking one time for Dr. Cho, or in some other far-off country. She would call to say a quick prayer and tell me not to give up.
Her prayers—and the prayers of my wife, my cousin Stephen, and another man in our church named Jim—were a cornerstone of my hope.
Spiritual Life Support
They prayed prayers I couldn’t pray for myself. I call it “spiritual life support.”
Just like physical life support, you can’t live on it forever, but for a season, it’s what keeps you going so you can recover. And I needed a heavy dose of prayer.
Marilyn stepped in and spoke life over my body.
The faithful prayers of a five-foot-ish fireball named Pastor Marilyn Hickey, my other three “crazy faith” friends, and my family helped make my healing journey possible—because I didn’t give up, and because they refused to let me face that mountain alone.
Hiking, Healing, and the Chair by the Window
Every time we finish a hike in Colorado, I glance over at the table and chair in Starbucks where my book came to a close and remember the incredible journey it has been—with my health and with my walk with God.
It’s almost like the outside trail and the inside story meet in that one spot:
- A dusty pair of hiking boots under the table.
- A coffee cup cooling next to a laptop.
- The memory of dark, fearful nights.
- The reality of God’s steady presence, even when I couldn’t feel it.
The same God who met me on that couch in our townhome is the same God who now meets me on mountain trails lined with aspen and pine, under huge Colorado skies.
Remembering Pastor Marilyn
When I heard that Pastor Marilyn Hickey passed away, I immediately thought of that commitment she made—to pray for me and to consistently speak life over me.
Her voice still echoes in my memory, like the way sound carries across a valley in the mountains. Simple phrases. Strong faith. No fluff. Just steady, stubborn belief in a God who still moves.
A Message for the One Who’s Ready to Give Up
If you’re in a place of desperation today, don’t give up. Please. Just hang on one more day.
Even as I type this, I am praying for every person who reads it—that it will reach you at just the right time and speak to just the right moment of vulnerability.
Today, don’t give up. Give God another chance by giving Him control of your life. You will not regret it.
And I’m passing on that “crazy faith” prayer to you—the same kind Pastor Marilyn prayed over me so many years ago.
Your Turn: Share Your Story
I’ve shared my mountain—both the one I hike in Colorado and the one I never wanted to climb in my health and faith.
Now I’d love to hear from you:
- Have you walked through a season where you almost gave up?
- Did someone become your “crazy faith” friend and stand in the gap for you?
- Are you in the middle of your own Pills, Ills, and Bills right now?
Share your story or your thoughts on perseverance and faith. You never know who might need to hear exactly what you’ve walked through—and your words might be the very thing that helps someone hang on for one more day.
Holy Crap 