Chapter 6 — Roads of Redemption — Springs in the Desert

A journey of setbacks, surrender, and surprising grace — Chapter 6 follows the road from a second fall and fading faith to brotherhood, renewal, and a cross-country call. Through a miracle move, a blessing named Keziah, and a single word — Rosebud — God turned brokenness into beauty. What began in dry places ended in living water, fertile soil, open arms, and a mission fulfilled — Radiant Oaks Ranch, The Craft Barrel, and Hope Forever Ministries all flowing from His grace.

Section 1 — The Fall and the Pity Party

I thought I’d already lived through the worst of it — but pride has a way of making sure you learn lessons twice.

The first miracle had carried me from broken bones to walking again, but somewhere in the slow climb back, I forgot the One who’d lifted me. I pushed harder than wisdom allowed, convinced that if I just trained more, tried more, proved more, I could rewrite the limits of what a man in my shoes was supposed to do. People warned me: “Don’t overdo it. You have to pace yourself. If you re-injure, it could end everything.” I smiled, nodded — and ignored them.

Because pride always sounds like determination until it hits the ground.

Then it happened: a second injury. The crushing reality of paralysis — again. The hope of recovery that had once burned so bright dimmed to a thin, cold thread. Twenty-one days of bedrest gave me plenty of time to wrestle with my thoughts, and by the end of it, I wasn’t just physically down — I was spiritually empty.

Funding for therapy had dried up, motivation was gone, and the will to keep fighting flickered like a dying candle. I was angry — at my body, at circumstance, maybe even at God. I called it a “season,” but truthfully, it was a full-blown pity party — and the only guest was despair.

There were nights I’d drive the coastline, eyes on the dark Pacific, the cliffs rising on one side, the waves breaking on the other. I told myself I was just clearing my head, but in my heart, I knew what I was flirting with. The thought whispered, “One sharp turn, and the pain ends here.”

That’s what pride does — it isolates you. It convinces you that the weight of failure is yours alone to carry, that no one else could possibly understand. I thought back on every warning I’d brushed off, every moment I refused to wait on God’s timing. The verse hit me like a mirror shattering in slow motion:

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” — Proverbs 16:18

I had fallen — hard.

But even in that pit, God wasn’t done with me. Just when the silence grew too heavy to bear, my phone began to buzz. One by one, the brothers showed up — not with sermons, but with presence. They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to. They’d swing by with food, help load the chair, push me into sunlight, remind me what laughter sounded like. Their simple acts of kindness became the ropes that kept me from slipping completely under.

I didn’t realize it then, but God had deployed an army of grace. They carried me when my pride wouldn’t let me ask for help. And that’s where the tide began to turn.

Section 2 — The Brothers Along the Way

We didn’t sit around talking about pain or problems. We just lived.

The guys didn’t come over because they felt sorry for me — they came because that’s what brothers do. We hung out, gave each other a hard time, chased sunrises, and filled the days with laughter and motion. Around them, I wasn’t “recovering Nathan.” I was just one of the guys again.

There was Arnold, the spark plug of the group, who refused to let any of us sleep in. He’d bang on my door before sunrise, grin, and bark, “Swim!” — half joke, half order. Arnold always had a joke for everything — even when life got heavy, he’d find a way to make you laugh so hard the pain forgot its name. We’d roll out before dawn, the Pacific turning pink at the edges, waves folding like pages in a living psalm. Those mornings weren’t about therapy; they were about resurrection.

Then there was Brant, the Marine whose loyalty ran as deep as his training scars. He’d jog beside my chair, pacing me mile for mile, sweat pouring, lungs burning. “We’re both training, brother — just different gear,” he’d say. He treated me like a teammate, not a project.

Joe was steadfast and solid — the kind of friend God assigns. He helped with whatever needed doing, not out of duty but partnership. Eventually, he moved in as my roommate. Together we found a rhythm — long pool sessions rebuilding muscle, late-night meals sizzling on the stove, talks that stretched toward dawn. Joe’s loyalty wasn’t loud; it was lived. He carried me through days I couldn’t carry myself.

And then there were Szilard and David — brothers with hearts of gold and a wild hunger for adventure. They’d show up unannounced, pile into the truck, and take off chasing sunsets. We’d spend nights at the beach, building bonfires that threw sparks into the sky, exploring downtown streets, climbing rocks we had no business climbing, laughing until the night blurred into morning. Around them, I forgot paralysis. I forgot pain. I just remembered what it felt like to belong.

Gordon was pure motion — always planning, always building, always pulling others into his whirlwind of purpose. At a church campout one weekend, every bunk was taken, but without hesitation, he tossed me the last bed and spread his blanket on the cabin floor. “Every warrior needs rest before battle,” he said with that grin that made impossible things seem simple. That was Gordon — equal parts drive and heart — always creating, always giving more than he took.

After a big sing event, Szilard and Gordon pitched an idea so wild it almost sounded like a dare — mountain hiking. They built a crew determined to carry me, chair and all, up steep trails just so I could feel the wind from higher ground and share the adventure instead of watching from below. Each climb was a small miracle of grit and grace — men straining under weight, laughing through sweat, proving that brotherhood doesn’t wait for easy paths; it builds new ones.

And then came Jimmy — the steady one whose heart for others could outshine the sun. He’d put his business on hold to volunteer with his family at disability events, always showing up with humility and joy. But one day changed everything. Jimmy cleared his schedule, loaded the truck, and took me on my first-ever skiing adventure — a day that became the breaking point of freedom.

Up on that mountain, flying down steep slopes, carving through powder, something holy happened. The cold bit at my face, the wind roared in my ears, and for the first time since the accident, I forgot I was injured. I wasn’t thinking about pain or paralysis or limitation. I was alive — utterly, wildly, beautifully alive — racing through a world painted in white and gold. In that moment, I wasn’t surviving anymore. I was living.

Each of these men brought something sacred into my story — not sermons, but proof. They didn’t preach hope; they practiced it. They showed up when it was inconvenient, stayed when it was uncomfortable, and reminded me that grace doesn’t always fall from heaven — sometimes it walks on two feet and calls you brother.

They didn’t just carry me up mountains. They carried me through them.

Section 3 — The Drive Behind the Pain

Life rolled forward faster than I could catch my breath.

The brothers and I were still close, but everyone was chasing their own goals, and I was chasing mine harder than ever. With the fire of competition burning again, I threw myself into training like a man possessed.

When I wasn’t driving Uber to keep bills paid, I was in motion — volunteering at Challenge Athletes Foundation events, helping others find freedom on wheels or waves, or hammering through long pool sessions at dawn.

Three days a week I trained with a triathlon coach, pushing my body past its limits. The more my arms burned, the quieter my mind felt. The pain became my therapy.

Soon I joined the Paralympic sprint-kayaking program. I wanted to represent more than myself — to prove that broken didn’t mean finished.

I benched 275 pounds, swam sixty to a hundred laps a week, and lived for that clean burn of discipline. The strength came easy; the peace didn’t.

As my body grew stronger, my heart grew colder.

Success felt hollow when the applause faded and I drove home alone. I’d stopped posting progress updates, and with them the small stream of donations that had once kept me afloat disappeared too. It felt as if God Himself had said, “If you won’t trust Me to carry you, then I’ll remove what you’re leaning on.”

So I doubled down — work, train, sleep, repeat. The mirror showed progress; the soul felt empty. The ocean that once brought life now just mirrored the restlessness in my chest.

Then the inevitable happened: I pushed too far again. One bad pull and my left shoulder tore — ligaments screaming, dreams snapping. I rehabbed, healed enough to believe I was fine, and went right back out, only to rip it worse the second time. The doctor’s words hit like a hammer: “You won’t make the 2020 Olympics.”

For the first time, I didn’t argue. I just sat in silence, staring at the floor, realizing that I’d built my identity around a finish line that no longer existed.

That’s when I knew something had to change. Strength without surrender isn’t strength — it’s bondage.

And somewhere in the quiet after that final injury, I whispered a prayer I hadn’t said in a long time: “God… if You still have purpose for me, I’m ready to listen again.”

I didn’t know it then, but that surrender was the door that would open to the greatest blessing of all — the woman who would walk beside me through every chapter to come.

Section 4 — Meeting My Wife

Not long after that prayer, I found myself sitting alone one night, scrolling through Christian Mingle. I wasn’t really looking for love — just connection. Someone to talk to. Someone who might remind me that life wasn’t all workouts, therapy schedules, and long drives between Uber pickups. Someone local I could spend the holidays with, to laugh with, to share a meal and a little piece of normal again. Someone to lighten up the mood and just hang out as friends.

I mean, brothers are great — but there comes a point in every man’s life when he wants to hear a softer voice across the table, someone who listens without fixing, who brings warmth instead of competition. The guys had carried me through the storm, but what my heart longed for now was a different kind of belonging — the kind that doesn’t end when the laughter fades.

I only spent a few days on the site before realizing online dating wasn’t what I was looking for. I didn’t need swipes or bios — I just wanted a friend. So I logged off and forgot about it, convinced it wasn’t for me.

Weeks passed. Then one night, out of nowhere, my phone buzzed with a reminder: “Your trial ends in six days.” I almost laughed. “Figures,” I muttered. But just before deleting the app for good, I decided to scroll one last time.

And that’s when I got an idea — why not have a little fun with it? I switched my search preferences from closest to farthest and scrolled all the way to the bottom, figuring I’d just message whoever was still awake on the other side of the world. The plan was simple: find the farthest person out there, click hi, and call it a night. Why not? What did I have to lose? Maybe a good conversation would come out of it — and honestly, at that point, that was all I was after.

That’s when I saw her — three days before my trial ended. One photo. Four words: “Single RN with child.” That was it — no long bio, no fancy description, just simplicity and sincerity. I don’t know what it was, but something about that smile stopped me cold.

So I did the only thing I knew to do — compelled to find out what the story was behind that smile, I messaged her: “Hey, I just had to let you know — I love your beautiful smile. Cheers!”

I figured that was the end of it. But a few minutes later, the message pinged back: “Hey, thanks.” That was all it took. One small response, and the conversation began to flow.

We talked for hours — about her life, her daughter, her world. About the ups and downs of single motherhood, about work, and about the twists that had brought her to that moment. She wasn’t a Christian, and honestly, my faith wasn’t in great shape either. I wasn’t trying to lead her anywhere — I was barely hanging on myself.

But as she shared her story, something began to shift inside me. Hearing what she had been through made my own circumstances feel smaller. Somehow, her pain put mine in perspective. And in that space between her words, I started realizing how blessed I’d been — not because life was easy, but because I’d been given roots of faith to fall back on.

Without even realizing it, I found my heart softening. I found myself turning back toward the One who gives all hope — not out of duty, but because I wanted to help her find some too. I picked my Bible back up, flipping through pages I hadn’t opened in months, searching for words I could share with this young woman who was hungry for change.

And as I started looking for answers for her, I began to find them for myself.

For three days straight, we talked about everything — her past, her dreams, her daughter, her longing for a fresh start. We laughed about life and shared what felt like a thousand miles of heart in just a few hours. I told her about my love for the ocean, about working out, about how much I loved surfing — never once mentioning my injuries or the wheelchair. It just never surfaced in conversation. Honestly, I figured she had read my profile and already knew.

On the third night, it was getting late — around 11 p.m. — and my trial was set to end at midnight. I finally said, “Hey, it’s been great talking to you, but my account shuts down at midnight, and I don’t plan to renew. Before I go, I have to ask — if you were to date someone like me, would the wheels bother you?”

She instantly replied, “Wait — what wheels?”

I smiled. “You haven’t read my profile, have you?” “No…” she said. “Well,” I replied, “you might want to do that.”

A few minutes passed. Then came the next message: “Hey, wait — you can’t go. I need to know more.”

Her nurse brain had kicked into gear. But it wasn’t just curiosity — it was compassion. From a medical standpoint, I was someone she shouldn’t even have been talking to — my level of injury didn’t line up with the kind of recovery she was reading about. It opened up a can of worms like a science project that needed solving in her medical brain. She needed to know the details, see the MRIs, understand how it was even possible. And somewhere in all those late-night questions and explanations, God started weaving us together in ways neither of us ever expected. She didn’t see the wheelchair first; she saw the person God had been shaping through all the pain and persistence.

And as she dug deeper into my journey, the questions started coming — hard ones. “How can a good God let something like that happen to you?” “Where was He when everything fell apart?” Questions that pierced deep, but instead of running from them, I turned back to Scripture to find the answers — not just for her, but for me.

Our late-night talks began to stretch into hours of searching, praying, and wrestling with truth. The more we talked, the more faith began weaving itself through every conversation — pulling two wounded souls toward healing neither of us saw coming.

Our journey soon turned into something far greater than friendship. We weren’t just solving questions; we were learning to surrender. And somewhere along the way, salvation took root — not only in her life, but in mine all over again. I watched as God transformed her heart right before my eyes, and in doing so, He restored mine.

It was a beautiful thing — the kind only God could write.

Before we walked that aisle, she had just one rule: “Don’t run over my toes.” Well… let’s just say that’s still a daily work in progress.

Ten years later, we’re still walking this road together — loving God, raising our family, and doing our best to live in a way that brings Him glory every single day. She didn’t just say “yes” to me; she said “yes” to the mission God had planted in both of us. And from that moment on, I was never running alone again.

Section 5 — The Turning Point

Life in San Diego had settled into a rhythm — or at least, it seemed that way. My wife and I had been married for three years, and between her long nursing shifts and my hustle driving Uber, we’d built something steady, simple, and hard-earned. But underneath it all, I knew change was coming. I just didn’t know how sudden — or sacred — it would be.

When we found out she was pregnant again, we were overjoyed — but that joy quickly turned to fear. The pregnancy was complicated from the start. The doctor’s face said it all the day she looked at us and quietly said, “You need to switch to day shift, or you’ll lose this baby.”

Those words hit especially hard. My sister-in-law and my sister had both recently delivered babies — both too early to survive. The three of us had all been pregnant within six months of each other, which made their loss even more personal. As they walked through their grief, our hearts ached alongside theirs — and with each passing day, we couldn’t help but fear that we might soon join them in that same heartbreak.

After two long years of trying to conceive, the weight of it all settled heavy on our hearts.

We drove home in silence that afternoon — no music, no small talk, just two hearts trying to process what obedience might cost. That night, I sat down with her to update her résumé. I didn’t know what else to do but move. By Friday evening, we had sent out three job applications — one local, one near family back east, and one in Washington State, where my brother and his family, aunt, and grandparents lived.

All weekend, I prayed like a man on the edge. “God, please — save this child. If that means uprooting everything we’ve built and starting over, I’ll go. I’ll go anywhere.” And I meant it. I told God, If this really is from You, then show me. Work a miracle so clear I can’t deny it.

By Monday morning — less than 72 hours later — the miracle arrived. The phone rang before noon. By Tuesday, there was an interview. By Thursday, a job offer. An unheard-of turnaround.

We both just sat there in disbelief. It was undeniable — God wanted us in Washington.

Within weeks, we packed up and left San Diego behind. I didn’t understand it then, but that move was about far more than a job. It was about timing, obedience, and legacy — about being exactly where God needed us to be for the next part of His plan.

Washington became a season of healing, honor, and family. We spent five blessed years there — helping my grandparents, raising our children, and cherishing moments we can never replace. It wasn’t always easy, but it was good. The kind of good that teaches gratitude in the small things — the sound of rain on cedar trees, the warmth of family dinners, the quiet peace that follows obedience.

Section 6 — The Call from Washington to Texas

After five beautiful years in Washington, I started to feel a stirring — the same kind that once brought me to the ocean, the same whisper that had carried me through pain. It was quiet but constant. Every time I prayed about the future, one word kept coming back: land.

I began reaching out to realtors, searching for property where we could finally begin the ministry God had placed on my heart years before — a home base for Hope Forever Ministries. I must have looked at a dozen properties, each one seeming right at first, but every door closed as quickly as it opened.

Frustrated, I went to my knees. “God,” I prayed, “You gave me this vision — but we need land. We can’t build a ministry without it. Where do You want us to go?”

And that’s when it happened. In the stillness of prayer, I felt an unmistakable awareness in my spirit: Texas.

At first, I laughed it off. “Wait a minute, God — no. We have a home here. The girls are happy. My grandparents need us. And we don’t know a single soul in Texas.” But the more I tried to pray it away, the stronger it became. It was undeniable. God wasn’t asking for my opinion — He was calling for my obedience.

Still, I argued. “God, if this is really from You, then tell my wife. Because unless You confirm it through her, I’m staying put.”

Three months later, she woke up one morning and said, “Babe… I have no idea why I’m saying this, but I think we’re supposed to move to Texas.”

I told her everything — the prayers, the wrestling, the signs I’d been ignoring. She nodded and said, “Then it’s time.”

Even then, I tried one last bargain with God. “Okay, Lord, if this is really You, prove it. We’ll put the house on the market for exactly what we owe plus enough to cover our medical debt — fifty thousand over appraised value. If You’re in it, it’ll sell for that amount, all cash. Otherwise, we stay.”

The realtor wasn’t convinced. “That price is too high. It could take months.” I smiled. “If it’s meant to happen, God can sell it overnight.”

We listed the house on a Thursday evening. By Monday morning, the phone rang. Five offers — all cash. One was exactly one thousand dollars over the number I had given God. The only catch? They needed us out in two weeks.

I stood there humbled and in awe. This wasn’t a move. It was a mission.

Section 7 — The Road to Texas

Once the house sold, there wasn’t much time to think — only time to move. Two weeks to pack up years of life and memories, with no plan beyond obedience.

We prayed and searched for a motorhome — something to carry us and our three girls wherever God would lead. By the next day, we found it: the exact model we needed, local, and miraculously within budget. Another piece of a divine puzzle clicked into place.

At prayer meeting, I shared the story. The men simply said, “Tell us when — we’ll be there.” On moving day, trucks and trailers lined the street at 6:30 a.m. By 9:00, the house was packed. By 10:30, everything was in storage. The thank-you lasagna was still in the oven. Easiest move of my life — because it wasn’t mine. It was God’s.

Soon after, my wife was put on ten weeks of strict bedrest. Then, on the nine-year anniversary of my accident, our daughter arrived eight weeks early — small but strong. We named her Keziah, one of the daughters God gave Job after his trial — beauty after brokenness, blessing after loss. Born on the very day that once marked my greatest pain. Not a coincidence — a redemption.

When it was finally safe, we pointed the motorhome toward Texas. At first, nothing made sense. Properties fell through. Doors shut. We looped between states chasing what made sense instead of what God had said — until we stopped running and prayed, “Tell us where to go, and we’ll go.”

One word came: Rosebud. We had never heard of it. No connections, no family, no plan — only a mutual friend from Washington who mentioned a small church in a little Texas town we might like.

So we did something different: we went straight to the church and sought God first — trusting that if we put Him first, He’d open the rest. After driving straight from Arizona, we arrived that evening, just in time for family night at a church couple’s home. They welcomed us like we’d always belonged. Laughter, kids underfoot, the smell of home-cooked food — the fellowship we’d been longing for.

I’ll never forget getting back into the truck afterward. Warm night air. A sky full of stars. I looked at my wife and our hearts said it together: “This is home.”

Within a month, every door opened. We found land that matched every prayer we’d whispered for years: running water, fertile soil, shaded pastures, and a spring that never runs dry — not one spring, but ten. God had been holding it all along, waiting for obedience to unlock it.

That land became the beginning of everything — the home of Radiant Oaks Ranch and The Craft Barrel, built in support of the mission He’d planted long before the accident. Hope Forever Ministries was tying it all together, coming full circle.

What began as pain became purpose. What started as brokenness became beauty. Every piece — the ministry, the ranch, the crafts, the family — woven into one unbreakable thread of faith.

Three cords — Faith, Family, and Purpose — woven together by His hand. Not easily broken.