I wrote this on October 8th, 2025. Grace was eight months pregnant. We had just moved. I was on a ventilator, in a wheelchair, and completely dependent on other people for everything. And somehow — I have never felt more like myself. I’m sharing this now because I think it says something true about what it means to be strong when your body has decided to stop cooperating. About what it means to love someone when loving them looks nothing like you thought it would.
Originally written on October 8, 2025 — Chicago, Illinois gate
ALS is a debilitating, devastating disease. My official diagnosis came in June, with confirmation in July. I started taking ALS medication soon after, but my decline has been incredibly rapid.
Today, I am completely dependent on others for all my needs. I can’t eat, drink, brush my teeth, shower, or go to the bathroom by myself. I have very limited use of my right arm and hand, and no use of my left. My shoulders and deltoids are in extreme pain. I can’t walk. I am now in a wheelchair and on a ventilator, unable to breathe without it. Physically, it’s hard — so hard.
I am a shell of the human being I was before. A shell of the man I used to be. But while my body has deteriorated, I have never felt stronger — mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. My mind, heart, and soul have overcompensated, becoming stronger than my body ever was.
Physically, I may look less of a man than I once was — but inside, I feel TEN FEET TALL. I feel more like a man today than I ever did before. My strength no longer comes from my body; it comes from my spirit.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9
Ralph Waldo Emerson once said,
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”
That truth has never meant more to me than it does now.
I remain completely optimistic.
Aside from this disease, I have so much to be thankful for.
First and foremost, my incredible wife — Grace. She is beautiful, caring, strong, and capable. I waited my whole life to meet her. I don’t just believe — I know — that God put Grace in my path, and me in hers, as part of His perfect plan. He knew that I would get sick. He knew that I would need her. And He also knew that we would need our village.
That village — our family and friends — continuously shows up to lift us up. They lift us in prayer. They send notes of encouragement. They show up and serve in so many ways: grocery shopping, cleaning ventilator equipment, packing our old place, moving things into storage, unpacking and setting up our new home, helping me up and down from my wheelchair. They take care of me to give Grace a break. It’s incredible.
And another answer to our prayers — a huge one — is that we have a baby on the way, due in the middle of November. That alone is proof that miracles are real. In fact, everything in our lives is going so well right now. The only thing that isn’t — the one thing that feels like an enormous weight — is this disease. It’s quite ironic, really. So much is going right — I have an incredible wife, an incredible village, and a baby on the way — and yet this devastating, debilitating disease sits in the middle of it all.
But maybe that’s exactly why I can stay optimistic. Because there is so much love surrounding me, lifting me, and keeping me alive in every way that matters. I truly believe I will walk again. I will not let ALS defeat me. I believe God is in control. God is lifting us up every single day.
We don’t yet know what His plan is — or why this happened, or why Grace, our family, and our friends must endure this — but I believe there is a reason. And in time, that reason will be revealed to us.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” — Jeremiah 29:11
Earlier tonight, Grace came into the room to take a short break from unpacking. She looked at me and said she wished things could go back to the way they were before — that God would heal me, that He would heal us.
I looked at her and said, “I don’t know why this is happening. But I do know God has a plan. And I also know that our love is stronger today than it was yesterday. I thought we loved each other yesterday — but somehow, today, we love each other even more.”
Our baby is so, so fortunate to have both of us as parents, and to have this incredible family and village surrounding them. This baby is already so deeply loved — not just by us, but by our friends, our family, and by God Himself.
I told Grace, “I don’t know what the reason for this is, but it’s part of God’s plan. And I know that you and I, and our baby, will come out of this stronger and better than ever.”
And in the middle of all of it — Grace.
I’ve realized that one of the best ways I can continue to show Grace how much I love her is by letting others take care of me. I’ve written about this before, and I’ll write about it again, because I’m still learning it.
I made a vow to love Grace in sickness and in health, and she made the same vow. Back then, I thought that meant I’d love her even if she got sick. What I didn’t realize was that someday I’d be the one who was sick — and that loving her would mean letting her not carry it all alone.
By allowing our family and friends to brush my teeth, feed me, give me water, take me to the bathroom, and bathe me, I’m giving Grace a little bit of her life back. These are all opportunities for them to take a load off of her, so she doesn’t have to do those things.
These are things I once protected fiercely — my pride, my dignity, my independence. I never would have wanted anyone to see me weak. But now, I see that this vulnerability is love. This is how I show up for Grace now. This is how I give her the kind of grace she needs.
She’s eight months pregnant, and things are so hard for her. Yet every single day, she shows up to take care of me. And this — this surrender, this trust in God’s plan, and in our village — is how I take care of her.
This is where I end up, every night, every day. On my knees in the only way I still can.
God, thank You for giving us Grace, for the miracle of this child on the way, and for our incredible village that surrounds us with love and strength. Even in suffering, You are here. You are present in every helping hand, every kind word, every breath that fills this room.
I don’t know why You’ve chosen this path for me — for us — but I trust that You are walking beside us. I believe You will lift me again, that You will carry Grace, our baby and our family and friends safely through this storm, and that Your plan, when revealed, will be perfect in its time.
Amen.
Secret of My SucCecil 