Chapter 5 — God Moments and Grace

Miracles rarely come loud. They come as whispers — through the hands that carried hope, the strangers who became family, and the steadfast love of a mother and father who refused to give up when the world said it was over.

1 — Whispers of Grace

Leaving Shepherd Center was, without question, one of the hardest, most emotional moments of my life. I had spent months surrounded by hope — by people who believed in recovery, by equipment that whispered possible every time it lifted me from bed to chair. But as the transport doors opened to the outside world, that hope felt like it was being ripped away.

It was saying goodbye to safety — to a world where my brokenness was understood — and hello to a cold, hard world built for the able-bodied, a world that didn’t know what to do with me. The hum of the highway sounded like rejection. The open road stretched before me like a sentence I hadn’t earned.

The equipment behind me said hope is within reach.
The roads ahead screamed, there’s no room for people like you.

Yet even as fear and grief closed in, grace was already working through the hands of my mother.

Mom was the tireless strategist. Night after night, she sat at her computer, researching, calling, pleading with doctors for better care. It was her persistence — guided by God’s providence — that landed me at Shepherd Center in the first place, the best spinal-cord facility in the world. And it was her faith that would soon chart the next miracle ahead.

When I left, I didn’t just leave a hospital; I left behind the only place where I had felt seen and capable since the crash. But grace doesn’t live in buildings. It travels — and it was traveling home with me to Ohio.

2 — Homecoming in Ohio — Grace Through Family

Ohio was colder than I remembered — but home carried its own warmth. My dad met me at the door with a look that said, we’ll figure this out together.

He adapted the house and farm with quiet purpose — ramps, grab bars, space to move and train. But it wasn’t the changes he made to the property that mattered most; it was the patience he carried in his heart. He gave me the freedom to struggle, to try, to fail, and to ask.

There was one morning I’ll never forget — standing beside his pickup, staring at the seat like it was Mount Everest. My mind said, there’s no way. Dad stood back, letting me wrestle with it, watching without a word until I finally sighed, “I don’t think I can do this alone.” Only then did he step forward, steady, silent, and strong — the living definition of help that honors, not humiliates.

Those early days at home were lessons in humility — learning to let go, to accept help, and to redefine strength. It wasn’t weakness to ask; it was wisdom. My dad’s quiet faith, my mom’s relentless drive, and God’s invisible grace formed the foundation that would carry me into every victory — and every storm — that followed.

3 — Riding Through the Valley — Triangle Therapy and the Open Fields

Those early months back in Ohio were a season of rebuilding — slow, difficult, and quietly sacred. My weeks were divided between long drives to physical therapy in Cincinnati and afternoons spent at an equine program near our family farm in the Dayton, Ohio region — a place called Triangle Therapy, where healing came not from machines, but from movement, nature, and trust.

The drive to Cincinnati took nearly an hour and a half each way. I’d pass miles of open fields, their fences blurring together as my mind wandered between hope and weariness. Those drives became my space to pray — to wrestle, to reflect, to ask God to meet me again in the quiet in-between.

Therapy in the city was structured and clinical — mats, weights, and parallel bars. It strengthened my body, but it also drained it. Triangle Therapy, on the other hand, worked a different kind of muscle — the one between faith and endurance.

The first day they lifted me onto Maverick, a tall, calm gelding with a wise face and steady eyes, I was nervous. My body was still weak, and the motion of his stride hit deep muscles that hadn’t been used in months. Every step burned. Every adjustment took effort. But beneath the strain, something beautiful was happening.

As Maverick’s gait rolled through my hips and spine, I could feel my body remembering — not all at once, but in tiny, miraculous sparks. The movement that had once been automatic was slowly coming back to life, one sway at a time.

The physical demand was real. By the end of each session, I was drenched in sweat, my arms aching from balance and grip. But even through the exhaustion, I loved it. I looked forward to those afternoons more than any other therapy I had. There was something freeing about being outside — no sterile lights, no machines, just the rhythm of a horse beneath me, the warmth of sunlight, and the steady whisper of wind through the trees.

Sometimes I prayed aloud. Sometimes I just breathed and let the moment speak. The creak of leather, the sound of hooves, the quiet murmur of encouragement from the therapists — it all became its own kind of worship.

Triangle Therapy taught me that healing isn’t just about regaining strength — it’s about reconnecting with life. Out there in the open air, I wasn’t just training my body. I was reawakening my spirit.

Each week, I left sore and exhausted — but alive in a way I hadn’t been in months. Those rides reminded me that healing could hurt and still be holy. And as I looked out over those wide-open fields, I could feel it deep in my bones: God was preparing me for what came next.

The fields had done their work — not by fixing what was broken, but by stirring what had gone still. The next chapter was waiting — one written in ocean light and faith’s next leap forward.

4 — A Mother’s Mission — Providence and the Path to Project Walk

When I think of divine appointments, few moments stand out like the night Mom found Project Walk.

I was sitting in bed, drained from another week of therapy and travel, my body sore, my spirit worn thin. The house was quiet except for the hum of her computer keys in the other room. She had spent countless nights like that — researching, emailing, calling, searching for anything that could give me a greater chance at recovery.

Then, sometime near midnight, I heard her footsteps — quick, excited, purposeful. She came into my room with tears in her eyes and said, “Nathan, I think I found the place you need to go next.”

She turned the screen toward me, and there it was — Project Walk, located in Carlsbad, California. It wasn’t a hospital. It was something entirely different: a recovery center designed like a gym, built for people like me who refused to give up when medicine said it was over.

Within days, she had the tickets booked and housing arranged — a small apartment on the shoreline of Oceanside Beach, overlooking the Pacific. It was everything I didn’t know I needed: a place where the horizon stretched wider than my fears and where each sunrise seemed to whisper that God wasn’t finished yet.

When we arrived, the view was breathtaking. The sun danced on the water like molten gold, waves crashed against the rocks below, and the sea air carried a mix of salt and freedom. From my window, I could hear laughter and chatter from people on vacation — and while I wasn’t there to rest, I knew this was no accident. God had placed me in a space of peace before the next storm of work began.

Each morning I’d wake to the ocean’s rhythm and thank God for another chance to try. Then I’d head to Project Walk, where every movement mattered.

The place was raw, electric, and unlike anything I’d ever seen. There were no white coats, no sterile silence — just music, sweat, and the sound of people fighting for their lives. Trainers barked encouragement. Families cheered from the sidelines. Determination filled the air thicker than oxygen.

And that’s where I met Jason — the trainer who would change everything.

He didn’t talk much, but every word he spoke landed with purpose. His way of teaching wasn’t through lectures or long explanations — it was through movement, precision, and belief. Jason didn’t see paralysis. He saw potential. Every command he gave seemed to wake something inside me that had long been asleep.

At first, it was just small flickers — a toe twitch, a muscle tightening, a spark where there had been silence. But over time, those flickers grew into flow. It reminded me of a frozen garden hose left in the sun — the ice melting slowly, then dripping, then suddenly rushing free.

Jason became more than a trainer; he was a brother in the fight. Eventually, he left Project Walk to work with me one-on-one every day. We’d spend hours training, pushing limits, celebrating inches as if they were miles. He never let me forget what God had started — and I refused to let it end.

(The first step itself didn’t happen here — it would come later, at home, in a quiet moment only God and I would share.)

5 — The California Chapter — Project Walk and Oceanside Miracles

California was a world away from everything I’d known.

The salt in the air carried both peace and promise. My apartment sat just above the shoreline in Oceanside, the Pacific stretching endlessly before me — a horizon painted each morning in gold and fire. I’d wake to the rhythm of waves crashing beneath my window, sunlight spilling across the floor like a quiet reminder that mercy was new every morning.

I wasn’t on vacation. I was on a mission.

Project Walk wasn’t a hospital — it was a battleground built on faith, sweat, and noise. Gone were the sterile walls and soft-spoken nurses. Here, the air smelled of determination. Music pounded through speakers, trainers shouted encouragement, and everyone inside was fighting their own private war against the impossible.

That’s where Jason thrived. His approach was simple but relentless — no pity, no shortcuts, no false comfort. He spoke recovery through movement. Every rep, every stretch, every instruction carried intention. He didn’t see paralysis; he saw potential waiting to wake up.

“Let’s talk to it,” he’d say, tapping my leg. “We’re waking it up.”

The first few weeks were brutal. My body barely responded. Sweat poured from effort that looked like nothing to anyone else. There were days I wanted to quit, but Jason refused to let me. He celebrated the smallest victories — the flicker of a muscle, the twitch of a toe, the whisper of connection between my brain and my body.

Progress came slowly, painfully — one prayer, one repetition, one heartbeat at a time.

I paid him what I could — only a fraction of what formal therapy had cost — but his investment went far beyond money. His time, his faith, his loyalty were priceless.

And then came the night that changed everything.

Jason had already gone home for the evening. I was alone in my apartment, sitting on my therapy table in the living room, overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean. The sound of the surf rolled through the open window. The sky outside was alive with a sunset that bled gold and rose across the water.

Something stirred in my spirit — not noise, not command, just a whisper.

Try again.

I reached for my nearby walker and pulled it close. My hands gripped the cool metal, my heart pounding as I slid forward to the edge of the table. My arms shook beneath my weight, my breath shallow. I whispered, “God… if this is You… help me move.”

And then, without warning — I did.

One step.
Just one, small, trembling step.

No cameras. No celebration. No one watching. Just me, God, and the ocean.

The sound of the waves filled the room, steady and eternal, as tears rolled down my face. It wasn’t dramatic — it was sacred. That single step was proof of life, proof of faith, proof that Heaven still had more to write in my story.

It took several more days before I could repeat it — before I could show anyone that it was real. But in that first step, I knew something holy had happened.

Nothing came easy or fast. Every inch forward was its own victory, celebrated like a championship. And that night, as I sat back on the therapy table staring at the ocean, I felt joy so deep it nearly broke me.

I didn’t need applause. I didn’t need proof. I had one step, and I had God. And in that moment — that was enough.

6 — Reins: Grace on Horseback

About forty-five minutes outside San Diego, tucked between rolling hills and the wide California sky, there was a place called Reins — a therapeutic riding center that would become one of the most meaningful chapters of my recovery.

If Project Walk was the battleground where I fought for strength, Reins was the open pasture where I remembered peace. It was a return to something deeply familiar — the smell of hay, the sound of horses shifting in their stalls, the open space that felt like home again.

The Reins family welcomed me like one of their own. They didn’t just see another patient; they saw a story in progress. From the moment I arrived, they took genuine interest in my journey — cheering every breakthrough, no matter how small. When finances grew tight, they extended a grant so I could keep coming, believing in me and with me, one horse step at a time.

The work wasn’t easy. Far from it.

Each session was a lesson in patience and endurance — physically demanding, emotionally humbling, and profoundly healing. Some days, I rode in a saddle; other days, bareback. Sometimes I faced forward, sometimes backward, sometimes even sat off to the side — every position chosen to reawaken dormant muscles and challenge my balance in new ways.

Week by week, we built on each ride. What began as gentle laps around the arena soon turned into balance exercises — leaning off the saddle to grab rings from poles, tossing weighted balls from hand to hand, learning to trust the horse beneath me as my partner in motion.

Every stride, every adjustment, every ache had purpose. The rhythmic sway of the horse mimicked walking — retraining my hips, spine, and nerves to move in harmony again. The horses didn’t judge or pity; they simply responded to energy, trust, and faith.

Over time, that faith grew — both in them and in myself.

Months passed, and I reached a milestone I’ll never forget. I graduated from assisted sessions to independent riding — taking the reins in my own hands, guiding the horse without a leader or side-walkers. The arena stretched before me like freedom itself. Wind brushed my face, the sun warmed my back, and for a moment, there was no wheelchair, no injury — just me, a horse, and the steady rhythm of creation moving as one.

Reins wasn’t just therapy. It was restoration — body, mind, and soul.

Each week, I left the ranch physically exhausted but spiritually full. The combination of Project Walk’s intensity and Reins’ grace became the perfect balance — fire and calm, grit and peace, structure and surrender.

Looking back, I see now that God was using both to shape me. Project Walk taught me how to fight. Reins taught me how to live again.

7 — Overdrive and Breakdown

The first step changed everything — but it also lit a fire I didn’t know how to control.

For months, I had been told what I couldn’t do. Now, suddenly, I had proof that I could. And that proof became fuel.

If one step was possible, I thought, why not two? Why not a hundred? Why not walk out of that chair for good?

So I did what I’d always done — I pushed harder.

I doubled my workouts, then tripled them. Mornings started before sunrise with stretching and lifting. By midmorning, I was working through therapy drills. I’d stop for lunch, take a short nap, then dive back in. Swim laps in the pool for hours. Eat. Rest for a moment. Then one more round before bed — an hour of focused muscle work, balance drills, and prayer for strength.

The days blurred together in sweat and determination.

Jason and I had created a rhythm — intense, methodical, and measured — but now I began to push past even that. I wanted to prove to the world, and maybe to myself, that the miracle wasn’t a fluke. That I could walk again — not someday, but soon.

And for a while, it worked. Each week brought a small victory — longer walks, steadier balance, greater endurance. Three hundred feet turned into four hundred. Nine sets of stairs became routine. I crawled hundreds of feet a day, determined to make my body remember what it once knew by instinct.

But somewhere in the blur of ambition, I crossed a line.

The workouts that once brought progress started to bring pain. My muscles screamed for rest, but my mind refused to listen. Every ache felt like weakness to conquer, not wisdom to heed.

One afternoon, I was determined to reach the half-thousand mark — five hundred feet. I had already made it 490. My arms ached, my legs trembled, but my pride urged me forward.

“Ten more feet,” I whispered. “Just ten more.”

The next moment, the world tilted. My knees gave out. I hit the ground hard — chest first, arms catching too late. The wheelchair sat just out of reach.

I dragged myself toward it, each pull tearing something inside. Sweat, grit, frustration, and tears blurred into one. Finally, I hauled myself back into the chair, shaking, breathless, too tired even to feel pain.

That night, I went to bed exhausted — body aching, pride bruised, mind still replaying the fall.

Sometime later, I woke wanting a shower, hoping the hot water would ease the stiffness that had settled into every muscle. But as I began transferring from the bed into my wheelchair, my tired arms slipped. The chair shifted just enough to catch the edge of my skin, tearing deep across my backside where I couldn’t see.

It didn’t seem serious at first — just another scrape from a long, hard day. But the soreness lingered, growing worse with every passing morning. Sitting became uncomfortable, then painful. A small bump formed where the skin had torn, and soon even shifting in my chair sent sharp stabs through me.

Days later, during a routine therapy session, Jason paused mid-set and looked at me, concern etched across his face.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

For a moment, I wanted to brush it off, to pretend everything was fine. But I couldn’t. I told him everything — the fall, the transfer, the painful bump on my backside that hadn’t gone away, the exhaustion that had replaced all the energy I once had. I admitted that I could barely crawl or walk anymore, that I was struggling just to get through the day.

Jason listened quietly, his brow furrowed. Then he said, “We need to get this checked out — now. I’ll take you to urgent care.”

I shook my head. “I’ll go,” I told him, even though every part of me wanted to do anything but leave the house. The last thing I wanted was another waiting room, another sterile light, another doctor’s voice telling me what I didn’t want to hear.

But fear had been gnawing at me — not just of infection, but of something worse. In my mind, I had built it up to cancer. The word echoed louder with each passing day. Jason tried to reassure me, saying it didn’t look or feel like that, but I couldn’t shake the thought.

So I drove myself to urgent care.

The doctor examined the wound carefully, ordered a scan, and explained that it wasn’t cancer — but it was serious. An internal infection had formed where the impact had torn the skin. It needed attention, but he was hopeful antibiotics would help.

I started the medication that night, relieved that it wasn’t what I had feared — but deep down, I knew I wasn’t out of danger yet.

The wound might have looked small, but it had opened a much bigger battle inside me — one that would soon take everything I had left to fight.

8 — The Hidden Battle — Surgery, Setback, and Silence

Months passed. Insurance delays forced me to wait, the infection spreading slowly inside me. By the time I was cleared for surgery, I was five months into pain that had nearly taken my life.

The operation was supposed to be simple — a quick clean-out of the infected tissue, a few stitches, and rest. But when the surgeon opened me up, he found far worse. The infection had tunneled into my GI tract, boring a hole straight through the lining.

Afterward, he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re blessed to be alive,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t have survived that long with an infection like this.”

He told me it was evidence of a strong immune system and good nutrition that had kept me alive through months of internal chaos. I was grateful — but the gratitude was hollow. My body was weak. My spirit was tired.

I was ordered to twenty-one days of bedrest. The first morning, I woke to an odd tickling on my chest — ants. Hundreds of them. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I could feel the crawling across my skin. My roommate, Arnold, came running at my call, grabbed the vacuum, and swept them away, cracking jokes the whole time to keep the moment light.

After that, the ants never returned, but the silence did.

At night, the house would grow still, and I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d ever get back what I’d lost.

My heart felt dead. Faith flickered. Hope went quiet.

I felt abandoned — by my body, by my purpose, even by God Himself.

But Heaven was already moving — quietly assembling a brotherhood I didn’t yet know I needed. They wouldn’t come with fanfare or halos — just truck keys, surfboards, strong arms, and stronger hearts. One by one, God was sending them — men who would carry me through the darkness I could no longer crawl through alone.