Do you believe in miracles?
I do.
I BELIEVE.
Lately though it’s been harder. I wrote this about two weeks ago on CaringBridge on the eve of our ALS Care Team visit the following morning. I was inspired to post this publicly after reading a LinkedIn update from a man I’d never met – former Alabama running back Kerry Goode – and a Facebook post about his friend – former Auburn basketball player Gary Godfrey. Both have ALS and both have good days and bad days; both are very inspirational.
“Tonight feels heavy.
Tomorrow I head back to Northwestern for another ALS care team appointment, and I want to be honest with the people who love us and are walking alongside us.
Physically, things are getting harder. My neck is weaker. Holding my head up at certain angles takes real effort. My hands, knees, and feet are swollen and painful. I’m coughing more. Transfers are harder. The weakness is more noticeable, and the fatigue lingers longer after appointments. These changes are real, and they’re happening faster than I’d like.
Mentally, emotionally, spiritually—I am still strong. I truly am. I feel grounded in faith, surrounded by love, and carried by grace. But I also want to say this out loud: I’m scared sometimes. Not constantly, but enough that it deserves to be named. ALS has a way of forcing honesty. Some moments are brave. Some moments are fearful. Both can exist at the same time.
This is where I keep returning—to prayer, even when the words are simple, even when fear is present.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
— Philippians 4:6
Grace tells me all the time, “Don’t you worry, baby. We got you. We got this. Together. Do not give up. Do not lose faith.” And when she says it, I believe her. BELIEVE.
And then there is Lizzy.
I can’t hold Lizzy on my own—not yet. But Grace figures out a way every single time. She puts Lizzy on me whenever she can so that I can hold her. And once she’s there, I can do it. I can hold her. I can feel her weight, her warmth, her little movements against my chest. Every time that happens, something inside me steadies. Loving her is effortless. Profound. Sacred.
Grace—my wife, my partner, my caregiver—is nothing short of extraordinary. She is an incredible mother while also caring for me with skill, tenderness, and relentless love. Watching her move through this season with strength, compassion, and grace humbles me daily. She is my hero. Truly. Wonder Woman doesn’t begin to cover it.
Tomorrow’s appointment is about addressing what’s changing—my neck strength, the swelling, the pain, the coughing, the fatigue—and planning what comes next. We are asking questions. We are advocating. We are continuing to show up, even when it’s exhausting.
This verse has become an anchor for me:
“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.”
— Mark 9:23
BELIEVE.
That is my word for this year—not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. Believe doesn’t mean pretending I’m not afraid. It doesn’t mean denying the reality of ALS or the changes in my body. Believe means choosing faith anyway. Choosing hope anyway. Choosing love anyway.
Believe means trusting that God is still present in uncertainty. That strength can coexist with fear. That grace shows up even on the hardest days. That miracles don’t always look like cures—but sometimes look like courage, community, peace, and the ability to keep going one more day.
So I’m asking—please keep praying for us. Pray for strength where my body is failing. Pray for wisdom for my care team. Pray for Grace as she carries so much. Pray for Lizzy to always feel safe, loved, and surrounded by light. Pray that fear never has the final word.
We feel your prayers. We lean on them. We are deeply grateful for them.
One step. One appointment. One breath at a time.
With gratitude and love,
Cecil”
Do I believe in miracles?
Especially on the days when it looks like a miracle is not coming?
Yes I do.
I BELIEVE.
Secret of My SucCecil 