There I was—at death’s door. Brain activity nearly gone. No response to physical stimulation. My family was preparing for the worst, discussing options for my lifeless body. And yet… in my heart, I was at peace.
How could that be? What was happening inside me while, on the outside, my world was collapsing?
What I discovered is this: when everything else is stripped away, only one thing truly matters—relationships. That’s it. I didn’t think once about my accomplishments or possessions. These things that once defined me didn’t even register. All I wanted in that moment was to be with my loved ones.
But here’s where it got hard: I couldn’t interact with them. I was surrounded by their love, yet I couldn’t speak, couldn’t thank them, couldn’t say “I love you.” Despite being freed from the burdens of the world, I stood at the edge of my own personal hell. As Howard Jones put it in his ‘80s hit No One Is to Blame:
“You can see the menu, but you just can’t eat.”
And then—
Something beautiful happened.
I wasn’t alone.
When I cried out in despair, my thoughts didn’t echo into emptiness. They were answered. Not by a visible figure—but by a voice. A voice I recognized as my own, yet it spoke with a depth of love I had never known.
It wasn’t the love of a wife, a daughter, a mother, or even a friend. It was the love of a Father.
A father’s love is unique. Its only goal is your best interest—not comfort, not convenience, but truth. That’s the voice I heard. No matter how many times I asked the same question, that voice never grew tired. It never wavered. It answered always with patience, wisdom, and love. It comforted me. Sustained me. It turned my personal hell into peace. I was free of the weight of this world, surrounded by love, and held close by One who would never leave me.
Eventually, that chapter ended. The veil lifted. I woke up, able to speak again, to see my loved ones. During those uncertain weeks, no one knew if I’d come back—or if I did, what state I’d be in. But when I returned, I was… better. Joyful. Grateful. Overflowing with love.
Doctors, nurses, therapists—everyone was amazed at the state of my mind and spirit. They had seen others emerge from similar experiences traumatized. They assumed I’d be the same. But I wasn’t.
Why?
Because I wasn’t alone in that darkness. I had the voice of peace—the voice of a Father. My Father.
Fast forward seventeen years.
Life has settled down, but my conversations with my Father are just as strong. For a long time, I assumed that anyone who claimed to be “saved” experienced the same intimacy. But recently, I’m not so sure.
The more I engage with groups of fellow believers, the more I notice a trend: the study of faith has overtaken the practice of relationship. Conversations often become exercises in quoting Bible verses, debating interpretations, and arriving at shared doctrinal conclusions. Everyone walks away feeling more informed—but I often walk away feeling disconnected.
I’m not great at citing verses. Instead, I try to ask questions that get at the heart—how we live our faith, how we apply it. But those questions often fall flat. Silence follows. And then, the group retreats back to scripture—where it feels safe again.
It leaves me wondering:
Is Bible knowledge the ultimate measure of faith?
Maybe I’m wrong. But these experiences often make me feel insecure, like I don’t belong. And that breaks my heart—not just for me, but for all of us. Because I know from experience that when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, knowledge alone doesn’t sustain you. A relationship does.
I fear many have skipped the relationship and gone straight to scripture. That they’re living faith in theory, not in practice.
Maybe it’s easier to explain it the way Jesus did—with a parable:
Two young men came of age and pursued their futures.
One moved away to attend a prestigious university, earning degrees in his father’s field—Associate’s, Bachelor’s, and Master’s.
The other stayed home, apprenticing under his father, working his way up as a journeyman and eventually a master craftsman—without formal education.
One day, the father announced it was time to name a successor.
The educated son stood proudly. “Father,” he said, “make me your successor. I have studied under the greatest teachers. I know every theory and concept of your business. My brother has none of my knowledge.”
But the father replied, “While it’s true you have great knowledge, I will give the business to your brother. Because I know his heart—and I do not know yours.”
I pray my neighbors—and all believers—will seek a relationship with God first. That they’ll engage in daily conversation with Him, and use the Bible to deepen that relationship, not replace it. So that when their valley comes—as it came for me—they’ll have more than memory verses.
They’ll have peace.
They’ll have the voice of a Father.
They’ll never be alone.
