A weight settles deep within tonight. After 190 days, traversing America’s heartland through scorching heat and biting cold, across bustling towns and forgotten stretches of highway, a stark reality has emerged: I must pause.
Doctors have scheduled surgery for my heel on March 30th, and a visit to a cardiologist looms next Thursday. This wasn’t the plan. The relentless forward motion, the unwavering commitment to each step, was all I envisioned. To admit the truth, I am emotionally shattered.
This journey has demanded everything – physically, spiritually, emotionally. Every ounce of strength I possessed at the start has been spent, leaving an emptiness I hadn’t anticipated. Yet, surrender isn’t an option. Returning to the South Side of Chicago as someone who quit is unthinkable.
I find solace in a familiar verse, Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” It’s not about my own resilience, willpower, or stubbornness, but a reliance on something far greater. Because if this walk depended solely on what I have left within me tonight, it would be over.
The initial pain stemmed from my heel, a pyogenic granuloma – a painful growth I’d previously had removed, only to find it had returned with a vengeance. Each step became an agonizing question, a challenge to the very core of my purpose. Pain has a way of forcing such introspection.
But the vision of the children on the South Side of Chicago, for whom we are building a Leadership and Economic Opportunity Center, keeps me moving forward. Every mile is dedicated to them, every step fueled by the opportunities we are striving to create. My purpose feels stronger than the pain, a conviction that burns brighter than ever.
The body, however, keeps a meticulous account, and eventually, the bill comes due. I’m reminded of the Apostle Paul, writing from prison, recounting beatings, shipwrecks, and near-death experiences. He wrote in 2 Corinthians 4:8 that we are “hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”
Tonight, those words aren’t poetic; they are a stark reflection of my reality. I am pressed, I am struck down, but I refuse to be destroyed. God didn’t bring me 190 days and 3,000 miles only to abandon me on a Louisiana highway. I have to believe that, and I do, even when belief feels like the most difficult thing imaginable.
The walk will pause for surgery, for healing, for answers from the cardiologist. I won’t pretend to be strong, to mask the fear that grips me. Instead, I hold onto faith – Hebrews 11:1 defines it as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
The finish line is obscured from my current vantage point, but I’ve walked 190 days on the unwavering belief that it exists. The building we envision doesn’t concern itself with my heel, and the children of the South Side cannot pause their struggles while I recover. The need remains constant.
I ask for your prayers. Prayer is as essential to me as breath itself, and I need it now more than ever. If you believe in our mission, stand with us. Share the story. Let others know there’s a pastor in Louisiana, broken and hurting, yet trusting in God, and determined to return to the road.
The walk may pause, but the purpose endures. The children of the South Side are waiting, and I am still coming.
