Kerry Goode

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THE DAY THEY HIJACKED MY WHEELCHAIR If you've ever seen Diary of a Mad Black Woman, you probably remember the famous bathtub scene. After Charles mistreats Helen and their marriage falls apart, circumstances eventually leave him dependent on others for care. Helen returns to help him, but after he continues disrespecting her, she reaches her breaking point and dumps him into the bathtub. Now, being paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair, I watched that scene thinking: "Lord...please don't ever let Tanja get any ideas." Because I've already had previews! There have been a couple of times when Tanja or one of my girls decided I wasn't moving fast enough. Apparently, my wheelchair has an"ATTENDANT TAKEOVER SWITCH." They flipped that joker on the back of my chair... Suddenly, my independence had been canceled due to somebody else’s scheduling conflict! I WAS NO LONGER DRIVING! I was 38 HOT! You could’ve fried catfish on my headrest and hush puppies on the armrests! I'm talking about so mad I wanted to pull over, get out, slam the door and walk home... Then I remembered. Well, hell. 🤣🤣🤣 I gave them an earful! "WHO AUTHORIZED THIS HOSTILE TAKEOVER?! PUT MY CHAIR BACK IN DEMOCRACY!" And underneath the comedy, that feeling is real. When you're wheelchair-bound, your chair represents freedom. You already depend on people for things you once did without thinking. So when somebody takes control of your chair, even with good intentions, it can feel demoralizing. For a moment, somebody else decides where you go, when you stop and how fast you get there. That's not just somebody grabbing your joystick. That's somebody grabbing your independence. Then I've had family members jokingly tell me: "Kerry, I can take you somewhere you don't want to go, and there's nothing you can do about it!" That's when I give them the look. You better remember who you're talking to. MR. BACKUP PLAN HIMSELF. I plan for the "what ifs." Battery dies? Backup plan. Something breaks? Backup plan. Caregiver doesn't show? Backup plan. You decide you're going to commandeer my wheelchair and take me somewhere against my will? Oh, sweetheart... We've just left the family-comedy portion of the program and entered the kidnapping documentary. Calling it a ‘family outing’ won’t help!” 🤣🤣🤣 So the question isn't whether you can take me somewhere. The question you need to ask yourself is: "Will Kerry press charges?" Will I? Won't I? Here's your only clue... I may be paralyzed. I may be sitting down. I may even need somebody's help getting into the bathtub. But before you flip that attendant switch, you'd better remember one thing: AIN'T NEVER BEEN NOTHIN' BUT A WINNER! And Mr. Backup Plan ALWAYS has a Plan B.

YOU NEVER OUTGROW CRYING OUT From the very beginning of our lives, God hard‑wired us with a cry. At birth, the very first thing we do is cry out. It’s instinct. It’s survival. It’s our way of saying, “I need help. I can’t do this alone.” As children, we cry out to our parents — for food, comfort, protection, reassurance. But somewhere along the way, life teaches us to “handle things ourselves.” We grow up, get stronger, get independent… and the cry becomes quiet. Not because we don’t need help anymore, but because we’ve convinced ourselves we shouldn’t ask for it. But spiritually? That’s backwards. The Bible doesn’t tell us to outgrow crying out. It tells us to return to it. “The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; He delivers them from all their troubles.” - Psalm 34:17 Crying out is not weakness — it’s worship. It’s surrender. It’s the soul remembering what the body learned on day one: I need Someone bigger than me. All throughout Scripture, God responds to the cry: Israel cried out in bondage — God sent deliverance. David cried out in fear — God became his refuge. Blind Bartimaeus cried out — Jesus stopped in His tracks. Peter cried out while sinking — Jesus grabbed him immediately. And Jesus Himself — the Son of God — cried out to the Father in the garden and on the cross. If the Savior cried out, why would we ever think we’re supposed to be silent? Crying out is not a sign that you’ve lost control. It’s a sign that you’ve finally given it to God. So if life feels heavy… cry out. If fear creeps in… cry out. If you don’t know what to do next… cry out. Your cry is not noise — it’s a signal. Heaven hears it. Heaven responds to it. Heaven moves because of it. You may have learned to depend less on people as you grew older, but you were never meant to depend less on God. Cry out — just like Jesus did — and watch your Father come running. You may have grown up, but you are still His child. Prayer: Father, help me bring You what I have been carrying alone. Remind me that I can reach for You in every season. Receive my tears, strengthen my faith, and help me take the next step with courage. Amen.

YOUR VOTE IS SOMEBODY’S FUTURE I voted. Those two words may seem simple, but I refuse to treat them casually. There was a time in this country when countless people could not walk into a polling place and freely say those words. Women fought for generations for voting rights. Black Americans faced poll taxes, literacy tests, intimidation, economic retaliation, and violence while trying to exercise a constitutional right. The struggle eventually helped bring about the Voting Rights Act of 1965. People paid a price so that many of us could possess a ballot today. So when somebody asks me,“Why should I care?” My answer is simple. Because somebody is coming behind me. I have a newborn granddaughter. She cannot vote for her future yet. But I can. I have a responsibility to help leave her a country where her voice matters, where opportunity remains possible, where compassion still has a place in leadership, and where the people making decisions understand that their choices affect real families. And this is personal for another reason. I live with ALS. I want leaders who understand that ALS is not just a statistic or an acronym buried inside a budget. There are real people behind those three letters. There are spouses, children, grandchildren, caregivers and families desperately hoping for better treatments and, ultimately, a cure. I have a duty to consider which candidates will care about people battling diseases like ALS, fund medical research, support families and caregivers, and remember that public office is supposed to be about public service, not simply serving yourself. You don't have to agree with me politically. You don't have to vote the way I vote. But please, VOTE. We spend plenty of time complaining about Washington, our states, our communities and our leaders. At some point, complaining has to become action. The ballot is action. Vote because somebody fought for that right. Vote because somebody was once denied that right. Vote because women and minorities refused to accept a country where their voices didn't count. Vote because there is somebody coming behind you who cannot vote yet. For me, that somebody is my granddaughter. I voted because my voice still matters. I voted because ALS hasn't taken away my responsibility. And I voted because the future belongs to someone I love. YOUR VOTE. OUR FUTURE.

Growing up in a house full of Goode boys, you didn’t get compliments — you got verbal uppercuts. Opinions flew around like dodgeballs. If you walked in with a crooked lineup, somebody yelled, “Boy, who lined you up, Stevie Wonder?” Feelings were not protected. Feelings were targets. So naturally, I grew up thinking honesty was a sport. Then I got married. And brother… marriage will teach you QUICK that every truth does not need a microphone. Case in point: May. The Month of the Haircut Ambush. Tanja walked in the house with a smile so bright it could’ve powered Atlanta. She said, “This is my new summer hairdo! It’s too hot to wear it down.” I turned around… And my soul LEFT my body. I froze like a man who just saw a bear wearing lipstick. My brain screamed, “WHAT IN THE HAIR‑RAISING HELL IS THAT?” My mouth whispered, “Don’t you DARE.” Because sitting on top of her head… was a structure. A formation. A… habitat. It looked like Woodstock — Snoopy’s ride‑or‑die — had built affordable housing right on her scalp. Now, old Kerry — locker room Kerry — would’ve said, “Baby… is that a bird nest? Should I call animal control?” But married Kerry? Married Kerry has learned that honesty must ride in the passenger seat while wisdom drives. So I let my face reboot. My eyebrows tried to snitch. I slapped them back into position. She said, “You like my hair?” I said, “LOOK at you! You’re feeling yourself today!” That bought me eight seconds of safety. Then I stalled like a politician caught on camera doing something suspicious. “What inspired this look?” “Who did it?” “How long did it take?” “Did they… use tools?” Meanwhile I’m sweating like I’m on trial. Then I found something true: “I love seeing you excited about it.” Boom. Truth. No casualties. But then she hit me with the death blow: “No, seriously. Do YOU like it?” This is where husbands meet Jesus. I activated the Matrix‑level dodge: “Baby… I love YOU. And anything you wear becomes beautiful because YOU’re wearing it.” I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell the truth. I didn’t get stabbed. I lived to see another sunrise. Because telling her I hated it? For WHAT? Hair grows. Mine grows back every week — hers grows every five months. This is a temporary situation, not a national crisis. And fellas, let me warn you: DON’T stare too long. That inspection stare will get you convicted before you ever open your mouth. She’ll say, “What?” You’ll say, “Nothing.” She’ll say, “YOU HATE IT!” And now you’re defending comments you haven’t even made yet. Bottom line: Her feelings matter more than your opinion about a seasonal hairstyle. If she loves it, let her shine. If she wants your preference for the NEXT haircut, that’s when you speak softly and carefully — like you’re diffusing a bomb. And me? I love summer… But I have NEVER been so glad to see Woodstock — I mean winter — come back around.

EVERY TRUTH DOESN’T NEED A MICROPHONE Devotional by Kerry Goode One thing life has taught me is that being honest and being loving are not opposites. But honesty without grace can become a weapon. There was a time when I thought, “If it’s true, why shouldn’t I say it?” As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that’s the wrong question. The better question is: “Will what I’m about to say help, heal, encourage, or unnecessarily hurt someone?” The Bible says, “The tongue has the power of life and death.” Proverbs 18:21. That means words aren't harmless just because they're truthful. You can be completely honest and still be completely insensitive. Sometimes we confuse having an opinion with having an obligation to express it. We don't. I've learned that every thought doesn't deserve a voice, every disagreement doesn't require a debate, and every truth doesn't need a microphone. Especially with the people we love. There are moments when someone needs our honesty. There are other moments when they simply need our love, encouragement, patience, and grace. Before speaking, I've learned to ask myself: Does this need to be said? Does it need to be said by me? Does it need to be said right now? And can I say it with love? That's not dishonesty. That's wisdom. Ephesians 4:29 teaches us to use words that build others up according to their needs. Imagine how different our marriages, friendships, families, churches, and even social media would be if we practiced that. You don't have to win every conversation. You don't have to announce every criticism. You don't have to turn every thought into a speech. Sometimes the most powerful demonstration of love is knowing when to speak. And sometimes it's knowing when to shut your mouth, smile, and let grace do the talking. Prayer: Lord, give me wisdom before I speak. Help my words bring life instead of wounds. Teach me when to speak truth, how to speak it with love, and when grace says enough has already been said. Amen. Devotional by Kerry Goode

KNOW YOUR OPPONENT I thought I knew ALS. Long before my own diagnosis, I had a front-row seat to my friend and teammate Kevin Turner’s battle with ALS. I saw the courage. I saw the progression. I saw what this disease could take. But after watching the documentary Gleason, I realized something: Being close to ALS and LIVING with ALS are two completely different classrooms. The documentary follows former NFL player Steve Gleason through his ALS journey, using deeply personal video journals originally created for his unborn son. It also follows his determination to adapt to his changing physical condition and his use of medical technology to continue living as fully as possible. [amazon.com], [justwatch.com] What struck me was how much of ALS happens where nobody sees it. People see the wheelchair. They don't see the preparation behind simply leaving the house. They see the ventilator, feeding tube or communication device. They don't see the emotional adjustment of surrendering another piece of independence. They see the caregiver standing beside you. They may never understand the exhaustion, frustration, tenderness, sacrifice and teamwork happening behind closed doors. And sometimes, even people WITH ALS don't know everything available to help us. That is what Gleason reminded me: resources matter. Technology matters. Adaptive equipment matters. Caregiving support matters. Community matters. And INFORMATION matters. The film specifically shows Steve Gleason adapting to his declining physical abilities through medical technologies and building a foundation intended to help other people with ALS live with purpose. [justwatch.com] I wish every person newly diagnosed with ALS could understand this: Don't wait until you desperately need something before learning that it exists. Ask questions. Learn about communication technology. Learn about mobility equipment. Learn about respiratory support. Learn about home modifications, transportation possibilities, caregiver resources and organizations serving people with ALS. ALS may change the way we move, communicate, eat, breathe and live, but knowledge gives us another weapon. Football taught me something years ago: you don't walk onto the field without studying your opponent. Why should ALS be any different? Knowledge of your opponent is POWER. We may not control every play ALS calls. But the more we know, the better prepared we are to respond. And sometimes the difference between merely surviving another day and actually living it begins with discovering a resource you never knew existed. Watch Gleason: Amazon Prime Video amazon.com/Gleason-Steve/dp/… By Kerry Goode

WHEN THEY CAN’T HEAR YOUR VOICE There are seasons in life when you know exactly what you need, but somehow nobody seems to understand what you’re trying to say. ALS has taught me that silence and helplessness are not the same thing. I may not be able to speak, but I still have a voice. I may need assistance, but I still have a mind. I may depend on others, but I am still a person worthy of being heard. And here's the blessing I've discovered: even when people misunderstand me, God never does. The Bible says, “Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear.” Isaiah 65:24 Think about that. God doesn't need me to finish the sentence. He doesn't need perfect pronunciation, a strong voice, or even audible words. When all I can offer is a thought, a look, a tear, or a prayer from somewhere deep inside, He already knows. Somebody reading this may feel unheard today. Maybe people keep making decisions for you. Maybe you're trying to explain what you're going through, but nobody gets it. Maybe circumstances have taken away something that once made you feel independent. Don't confuse being misunderstood with being forgotten. God still hears you. And sometimes God sends people into our lives who have learned our language. They recognize what others overlook. They know when the smile isn't the whole story. They understand what we're trying to say before we ever finish saying it. Cherish those people. But most importantly, remember this: Your value was never determined by how loudly you could speak. When your voice becomes a whisper, your life can still preach. When your body becomes weaker, your faith can become stronger. And when nobody else understands what you're trying to say, look toward heaven. You don't have to play twenty questions with God. He already knows the answer. Devotional by Kerry Goode

GET MY WIFE! THIS AIN’T A GAME SHOW! Every time I get my trach changed, I survive the procedure and enter the bonus round: surviving the recovery room. I have ALS. I cannot speak. Apparently, that qualifies me for a complimentary game of Guess What Kerry Needs, where the nurse is the host, contestant, AND final answer. “Are you cold? You’re probably cold. Let’s get a blanket.” I’m mouthing, GET MY WIFE! “Do you need to rest?” I’m thinking, No, ma’am! I’m trying to avoid resting in PEACE! A mucus plug is blocking my throat, and we’re playing twenty questions with nineteen answers she supplied herself. That loogie has moved in, changed the locks, and registered to vote. I’m hocking up something that might qualify as a second lung, and she’s conducting a customer satisfaction survey. “Are you comfortable?” Compared to WHAT? A catfish in a Ziploc bag? Then she sticks this little suction straw into my throat. It looks like a coffee stirrer! Ma’am, are we clearing my airway or mixing a caramel macchiato? Trying to remove that plug with that thing feels like trying to kill an elephant with a BB gun. The elephant isn’t injured. He’s irritated and asking who flicked him. Meanwhile, Tanja has my personal suction machine, complete with a hose that looks like it came off a firetruck. That little hospital straw whispers, Please come out. Tanja’s machine says, VACATE THE PREMISES! Turn that thing on and the curtains lean toward the bed. Somewhere down the hall, a man’s toupee files a missing persons report. That machine has sucked up stomach acid a few times. I’m convinced it could retrieve a hamburger I ate in 1983. It might even clean my ears from the inside, but I made Tanja stop. I cannot risk the few brain cells I have left! Those boys already work alternating shifts. We cannot afford a staffing shortage. But here’s why recovery makes me nervous: I know what I need. I just cannot shout it. And somebody keeps mistaking my silence for permission to answer for me. Lord, ALS has been trying to take me out for years. Please don’t let a coffee stirrer get the assist! Next time, I’m wearing a shirt that says GET MY WIFE on the front and THIS IS NOT MULTIPLE CHOICE on the back. Because apparently I need a second recovery room to recover from the first one!

BIG BOYS DO NOT CRY, BUT REAL MEN DO Somewhere along the way, a lot of us men were taught that tears were a sign of weakness. Big boys do not cry. So we learned to swallow pain, hide fear, bury disappointment, and pretend everything was fine even when something inside us was falling apart. But life has taught me something different. Big boys do not cry, but real men do. Sometimes a good cry is like an emotional oil change. You do not throw the whole car away because the check engine light comes on. Sometimes you simply need to drain some stuff out before you can keep moving. And believe me, ALS can fill up the emotional oil pan pretty fast. There are days when frustration, exhaustion, anger, disappointment, and helplessness all show up at the same time. I cannot move my arms. I cannot move my legs. I cannot scratch an itch. And when somebody gets on my nerves, I cannot even storm out of the room. Do you know how dangerous that is? Most people get mad and walk away. I get mad and have to sit right there looking at you. That will either develop patience or a criminal imagination. So yes, I cry. I have had crying sessions where, if tears counted as cardio, I would have finished a marathon. But crying is not quitting. There is a difference between having a moment and surrendering your life to that moment. Sometimes tears release the pressure we have been carrying. They allow us to admit, this hurts, this scares me, this is heavier than I expected. Ecclesiastes 3:4 reminds us there is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance. God never told us there was only a time to be strong. He made room for the tears too. The real question is not whether you cry. The question is, what do you do when the crying stops? For me, eventually I have to say, All right KG, you got it out. Now what are we doing next? Because I can cry about ALS all night, but ALS is not waking up tomorrow feeling guilty. ALS has never apologized. Terrible customer service. So sometimes I cry. Then I pray. Then I laugh. Then I gather myself. And then I fight again. Your tears do not mean your faith is gone. Your tears do not mean your courage has disappeared. Your tears do not mean you have surrendered. Sometimes weeping is simply the soul saying, I have carried enough for today. Let it out. Catch your breath. Gather yourself. Then get back up emotionally, spiritually, mentally, however you can. Because sometimes tears do not wash away your strength. Sometimes they wash away just enough pain for you to find your strength again. Big boys do not cry. But real men do. And real men wipe their eyes, straighten their faith, and keep moving forward.

THE POWER OVERHEAD, THE RESPONSIBILITY BELOW Yesterday, I witnessed something I will never forget. Three fighter jets came roaring over Bryant-Denny Stadium. We waited for them, and when they finally appeared, the entire moment lasted maybe 2 or 3 seconds. But Lord have mercy, what a powerful 3 seconds. Those jets came across the stadium with unbelievable speed. From where I sat, they seemed so low that a few feet lower would've had folks in the upper decks checking to see if their eyebrows were still attached. The sound shook the stadium. But the meaning shook me. I got chills thinking about the power of the United States military and the men and women entrusted to defend this nation. Then another thought hit me: If we possess that kind of power, character matters in the people we trust to lead it. I spend a lot of time sitting in this wheelchair watching television and fact-checking political claims. Election season has become exhausting. One political ad says one thing. Five minutes later, another says the opposite. Everybody wants us angry, scared, divided, and most importantly, they want our vote. My daddy used to say: "When choosing between two evils, choosing the lesser evil is still choosing evil." That's why we need more than party loyalty. We need discernment. Scripture points us toward truth, justice, humility, wisdom, and integrity. Proverbs 11:3 says the integrity of the upright guides them. Micah 6:8 tells us to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. Character matters. Truth matters. Integrity matters. And accountability matters. So don't vote simply because you're angry. Don't vote because you're afraid. Don't let a political commercial do your thinking for you. Pray. Think. Research. Question. Discern. Then vote according to your conscience and convictions. And when the election is over, our responsibility isn't. Hold leaders accountable. Demand honesty. Expect integrity. Never lower your moral standards just because the person violating them belongs to your political party. Those fighter jets disappeared in seconds, but their message stayed with me. America's strength isn't only found in the incredible machines flying overhead. It's also found in the character, courage, faith, and responsibility of the people below. Maybe instead of constantly looking toward heaven asking God to fix our country, we should occasionally look at ourselves and ask: "What am I doing with the responsibility God has placed in my hands?" The roar of those jets lasted seconds. The responsibility of citizenship lasts generations. Choose truth over deception. Choose prayer over propaganda. Choose integrity over popularity. Choose character over charisma. And whatever you do, never become so loyal to the left or the right that you stop being loyal to what is right.

🤣 If time is an illusion, Tanja must be the head magician! She can turn “five more minutes” into an entire afternoon! I’ve experienced the past, present, and future waiting on her: we SHOULD’VE left, we STILL haven’t left, and we’re GONNA be late! 😂 But you caught the heart of it. With ALS, getting out takes hours of preparation and people I depend on. Being ready on time helps me enjoy the outing without being exhausted by the stress before we even arrive. The clock may be up for debate, but the person depending on you is real. Showing up prepared is another way of showing love! 😁

I MARRIED THE LOVE OF MY LIFE... AND WE’VE BEEN LATE EVER SINCE This one right here is a public service announcement for all the chronically late folks who think time is a suggestion and punctuality is a personality trait. I grew up in a house where being late was treated like a felony. My parents had quotes ready at all times, like they were running a motivational poster factory: “If you’re on time, you’re late.” “Late people steal time from others.” “Punctuality is the courtesy of kings.” “Being late says your schedule matters more than everyone else’s.” I mean, they preached punctuality so hard I thought it was in the Ten Commandments. Daddy didn’t need an alarm clock. His LOOK could get everybody dressed! Then I met Tanja. Dating? Never late. She was so on time she made the clock nervous. I thought I had found my soulmate, my time‑management queen, my calendar‑coordinated Cinderella . Then we got married. And brother… I was BAMBOOZLED! Apparently, punctuality was included in the free trial. Soon as I said “I do,” that subscription EXPIRED! Twenty‑five years later, every argument we have can be traced back to one root cause: Tanja Time, a mysterious time zone where clocks don’t tick, alarms don’t matter, and departure times are merely suggestions. Right before my ALS diagnosis, I instituted the "Two-Car Treaty." If the clock hit zero, the engine started. I would drive away, leaving Tanja and the girls standing on the porch like stranded hitchhikers. It worked. They’d have to drive themselves. It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was freedom. Twenty-five years later, our arguments still start with some version of: “Tanja, WE GOTTA GO!” Because let’s review the math: I’ve provided the formula: Three hours to dress me. Two hours for Tanja—IF she’s already showered. One hour driving. Another hour loading, unloading, and getting into the building or stadium. That’s 7 hours of preparation, proven by science, experience, and the Department of Common Sense. If we’re supposed to leave at FIVE, 4:58 is no time to announce, “Let me jump in the shower!” Baby, jump in the VAN! Sports taught me that being late says something about you. Coaches used to yell: “Late players ride the bench!” “If you can’t show up on time, you can’t show up for the team!” “Champions respect the clock!” And disability adds something else people don’t understand: RECON. Before I go somewhere, I’m studying accessible parking, ramps, entrances, exits, sidewalks, seating and bathrooms like I’m planning a military operation. Accessibility makes preparation essential. But my family? They want to show up blind and hope Jesus takes the wheel. The unknown is stressful for handicap warriors. Add being late on top of that? That’s why so many of us stop going places. It’s not the disability — it’s the chaos. So let this be a message to all the late folks: Be a good teammate. Someone is depending on you. It’s not all about you. And if you’re married to someone like Tanja? Just know… you’ve been bamboozled too.

I’ve got a story that’ll have folks laughing so hard they’ll need a chiropractor. It’s called “I’m Still Living! Why Is Everybody Afraid to Talk About Dying?” — and baby, it’s my life in 500 words or less. People will talk about everything under the sun — feeding tubes, ventilators, wheelchairs, who in the HELL put raisins in the potato salad, and whether the Crimson Tide needs a new offensive coordinator. But mention my final wishes and suddenly everybody gets quiet enough to hear a mosquito breathe. I’m making arrangements, not requesting early check-in!” “I’m not dying today — I still have leftovers in the fridge!” Talking about dying doesn’t mean I’ve given up on living. After 12 years, my family should know better. If they ever see me in a fight with a bear, HELP THE BEAR! That bear has clearly made a terrible decision. I slip these conversations into everyday life because sitting everybody down for “THE TALK” sounds too much like somebody should bring a lawyer, tissues, and some Hennessy. I might tell Tanja, “Baby, when my time comes, I really don’t want a repast.” She’ll look at me like, “Can we finish dinner before you plan your funeral?” 😂😂😂 Honestly, I’d rather have a tailgate party. And I’ve already got the name: KERRY’S FINAL HOME GAME: THE I LEFT IT ALL ON THE FIELD TAILGATE Crank up the music. Wear your team's paraphernalia. Tell some lies about me (I mean stories). Laugh until somebody’s stomach hurts. And somebody better yell ROLL TIDE in the middle of all of the enemy jerseys. Don’t stand around whispering, “He looks so peaceful.” I’d better look peaceful! For once, nobody is asking me to do anything! 😂😂😂 Families avoid these conversations like they’re allergic to common sense. As if discussing medical wishes, finances, funerals, and what happens afterward somehow invites death over. Death doesn’t need an invitation. Ignoring death doesn’t cancel it — this ain’t a subscription service. I want my family prepared. Not because I’m expecting to die today. Because I’m planning to LIVE today. And whenever tomorrow comes, y’all will know exactly what I want. I want my family prepared, not panicked. I want them confident, not confused. I want them celebrating the life I lived, not crying over the life I didn’t get to finish. I left it all on the field — every yard, every down, every breath. I know everybody has an expiration date. But apparently, God wrote mine in invisible ink. Because I've been swinging at this thing for 12 years. So until He decides otherwise, I’m going to keep living, laughing, loving, making memories, watching football... and getting on Tanja’s LAST nerve. Because I’m not giving up on life. I’M JUST GETTING MY HOUSE IN ORDER WHILE I’M STILL RAISING THE ROOF!

READY FOR TOMORROW, GRATEFUL FOR TODAY A Devotional by Kerry Goode “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12 (KJV) I have learned that peace grows when I stop demanding certainty and start trusting the One who holds my future. I cannot control how many days I will be given. But I can choose how I love, how I forgive, and how faithfully I use the opportunities God places before me. I don’t have to hide from hard truths to hold on to hope. Some conversations are uncomfortable because love makes the possibility of loss feel so heavy. I understand that. I want my love to be strong enough to speak honestly and gentle enough to make room for tears. Preparing wisely can be one more way of saying, “You matter to me.” I can make thoughtful plans and still look forward to good days. I can acknowledge uncertainty and still find something worth celebrating. Today, I can encourage someone. I can offer an apology. I can listen without rushing. I can remind the people beside me that they are deeply loved. Those moments matter. If you are facing questions you cannot answer, please hear me: you don’t have to solve your entire future before you experience joy. Take the next faithful step. Let someone help you. Let yourself laugh without feeling guilty. I trust that God is with me in the middle of unfinished plans and unanswered prayers. I want my legacy to begin in the way I treat people today. I want my gratitude to be heard while there is still time to share it. My future belongs to God. My love has work to do today. Prayer: Father, give me courage for honest conversations, wisdom to prepare with love, and a grateful heart for this day. Help me live fully in Your presence and trust You with what I cannot control. Amen.

SHE’S STILL MY WIFE, NOT JUST MY CAREGIVER! “I miss being a husband, not just someone my wife takes care of.” After nearly 12 years of fighting ALS, one of the hardest things I’ve learned is that illness doesn’t just attack your body. It can quietly invade your marriage too. People ask me, “How do you maintain a romantic relationship when your wife becomes your full-time caregiver?” My answer? When you figure it out, PLEASE let me know! Tanja can multitask with the best of them, but being my wife, caregiver, nurse, equipment manager, medication supervisor, chauffeur, and trach patrol while keeping romance alive? Even Wonder Woman would request backup. ALS changed our marriage. I went from being an independent husband to depending on my wife for almost everything. And Lord, have mercy, the hardest part isn’t always needing help. It’s watching Tanja do something HER way when I know perfectly well MY way is better! At least that’s what I keep telling myself. But underneath the frustration is something deeper. I miss being her husband. My love language is physical touch. Today I’m unable to reach over and hold her hand, hug her, or wrap my arms around her. Most of the touching I receive involves caregiving. Tanja’s love languages are acts of service and words of affirmation. I’ve had to remind myself that every act of service is also her saying, “I love you.” And words of affirmation from me can take some time. By the time I finish typing something romantic with my eyes, the romantic moment might have packed a suitcase and left town! But we keep living. We travel. We attend Alabama games, concerts, listen to live music, work through our foundation, and help other people. We still go out to dinner, although sitting in a favorite restaurant watching everybody eat while you’re on a feeding tube is a special kind of torture. And yes, I still flirt! I just have to make sure Tanja doesn’t mistake my bedroom eyes for, “Baby, I need my trach suctioned.” That’s marriage with ALS. It’s complicated. Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes heartbreaking. Sometimes hilarious. But she is still my wife. ALS may have changed how I hold Tanja, but it hasn’t changed how much I love her. I may not be able to wrap my arms around her anymore, but my heart still reaches for her every single day. I’m still her husband, not just her patient. And she’s still my wife, not just my caregiver. Today’s takeaway: Caregiving may become part of a marriage, but it should never become the entire marriage. Make room for laughter. Make room for affection. Make room for companionship. Make room for romance. Because illness can change the roles two people play, but it doesn’t get to decide who they are to each other.

FIND JOY IN THIS DAY A Devotional by Kerry Goode There are battles people will never understand because they cannot see them. They see your smile, but they don't know what it cost you to produce it. They see you sitting there, but they don't know how hard your body is working. They see the outside while something entirely different may be happening on the inside. I'm learning that one of the hardest parts of this journey is accepting change. Sometimes yesterday's strength doesn't show up today. Things that once seemed simple suddenly require tremendous effort. And if I'm honest, there are moments when realizing that breaks my heart. But I've decided something: I will not wait for life to become easy before I look for joy. Joy doesn't mean I'm pretending everything is okay. Joy means everything isn't okay, and I still believe God is here. I've learned that faith isn't always standing on a mountaintop shouting victory. Sometimes faith is sitting in the valley, exhausted, whispering: "Lord, I'm still here." The Bible says, "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." Psalm 118:24 Notice it doesn't say, "This is the easy day." It doesn't say, "This is the day when everything goes according to plan." It says, THIS is the day. So this is my encouragement to anyone fighting an invisible battle: Don't measure your courage by how strong you feel. Don't measure your faith by whether you cried today. And don't assume God has abandoned you because the road has gotten harder. You may be tired. You may be hurting. You may even be afraid of what tomorrow holds. But you're here today. So am I. And somewhere inside this day, there is still something worth thanking God for. I'm going to find it. And when I do... I'm going to smile.

FIND JOY IN THIS DAY A Devotional by Kerry Goode There are battles people will never understand because they cannot see them. They see your smile, but they don't know what it cost you to produce it. They see you sitting there, but they don't know how hard your body is working. They see the outside while something entirely different may be happening on the inside. I'm learning that one of the hardest parts of this journey is accepting change. Sometimes yesterday's strength doesn't show up today. Things that once seemed simple suddenly require tremendous effort. And if I'm honest, there are moments when realizing that breaks my heart. But I've decided something: I will not wait for life to become easy before I look for joy. Joy doesn't mean I'm pretending everything is okay. Joy means everything isn't okay, and I still believe God is here. I've learned that faith isn't always standing on a mountaintop shouting victory. Sometimes faith is sitting in the valley, exhausted, whispering: "Lord, I'm still here." The Bible says, "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." Psalm 118:24 Notice it doesn't say, "This is the easy day." It doesn't say, "This is the day when everything goes according to plan." It says, THIS is the day. So this is my encouragement to anyone fighting an invisible battle: Don't measure your courage by how strong you feel. Don't measure your faith by whether you cried today. And don't assume God has abandoned you because the road has gotten harder. You may be tired. You may be hurting. You may even be afraid of what tomorrow holds. But you're here today. So am I. And somewhere inside this day, there is still something worth thanking God for. I'm going to find it. And when I do... I'm going to smile.

PRICELESS IN HIS EYES By Kerry Goode “Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” —Matthew 10:31, KJV I have learned that the hardest part of needing help is sometimes accepting it without feeling guilty. I can be grateful for the people who love me and still worry that I’m asking too much. Some days, my thoughts hold a committee meeting—and worry appoints itself chairman! But I’m learning to bring those thoughts to God before allowing them to define me. My value does not shrink when my needs grow. God knows every part of me: the faith I hold onto, the fears I struggle with, and the exhaustion I sometimes hide behind a smile. I can bring all of that into His presence. I don’t have to arrive with everything figured out. I’m learning to receive love with the same grace I want to give it. Sometimes that means accepting help. Sometimes it means admitting I’m overwhelmed. Sometimes it means allowing “thank you” to be enough, without following it with an apology for having needs. If you’re struggling with that guilt today, I want you to hear this: You deserve care on the days when you have nothing impressive to offer. You don’t have to turn every difficult moment into somebody else’s inspiration. You are worthy of kindness when you’re tired, quiet, uncertain, or still searching for the right words. Today, let someone help you. Tell them their kindness matters. Let gratitude have a little more room than guilt. As for me, I’m holding onto this truth: My circumstances can change without changing my worth in God’s eyes. Prayer: Father, help me receive the love You place around me. Quiet the guilt that makes me question my worth. Teach me to rest in Your care and recognize Your kindness through the people who show up. Amen.

MY WHEELCHAIR COSTS $80,000—SOMEBODY GO GET JEEVES! By Kerry Goode Listen, y’all! When I played in the NFL, I thought football equipment was expensive. Then ALS introduced me to an $80,000 wheelchair. Now I understand “durable medical equipment.” The equipment has to outlive the payments! I studied that price through my eye-gaze computer. My eyes nearly logged out. EIGHTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. For that money, this chair ought to mow the yard, file my taxes, and stay on hold with the insurance company while I watch Alabama football! Naturally, I imagined a luxury dealership. The salesman gestures toward my chair like he’s unveiling a Rolls-Royce. “Mr. Goode, this model comes fully loaded.” “So did my bank account before I got here!” “It reclines.” “So does a lawn chair. Keep talking.” “It tilts.” “So does my entire financial future. What else?” Then he explains the custom seating. For $80,000, that leather better come from a cow with a doctorate! I need that cow’s résumé, three references, and proof it graduated with honors. I’m expecting heated seats, four-wheel drive, a sunroof, and a chauffeur named Jeeves. What I get is a charger. A CHARGER! You mean I paid luxury-car money, and now I’ve got to plug myself in beside somebody’s iPhone? Tanja’s checking the battery indicator like, “Baby, you’re on twelve percent.” Well, put me on airplane mode! These bills already got my nerves roaming! And somebody explain the cup holder. Eighty thousand dollars, and it still isn’t in the right place. NASA can land something on Mars, but apparently parking Tanja’s drink beside my armrest requires another research grant. I helped put five children through college. Now I’m financing a chair that hasn’t passed a single class! For this kind of money, it ought to have a degree, a job, and the decency to pay its own light bill! Then Tanja reminds me I already have a chauffeur. That’s true. Mine is five foot nothing, answers to Tanja, and does not appreciate being addressed as “Jeeves.” “Jeeves, bring the vehicle around.” She looked at me like she was calculating whether sarcasm counted as a preexisting condition. “Your vehicle is under you, Kerry.” Well, there goes the concierge service. By now, my Cadillac expectations had a flat tire. But I figured I could still enjoy the luxury experience. “Jeeves, take me somewhere expensive.” Tanja glanced at my wheelchair. “Baby, you’re already there.”

ALS IS TRYING TO BANKRUPT ME, BUT IT CAN’T AFFORD MY SPIRIT! By Kerry Goode Listen, y’all! When I played in the NFL, I thought football equipment was expensive. Then ALS introduced me to an $80,000 wheelchair! For that price, it ought to have heated leather seats, four-wheel drive, a sunroof, and a chauffeur named Jeeves! Instead, I’m still negotiating with a cup holder. But behind my jokes is a reality that hurts. Before getting my tracheostomy, I thought long and hard about the financial burden on my family. Nearly 12 years into this fight, we’re well over $100,000 in debt, and it keeps climbing. Along the way, we’ve also put five children through college. I look for ways to reduce that debt daily. Some days, my calculator needs prayer before I do. Ventilators, medications, medical supplies, transportation, home modifications, and around-the-clock caregivers add up. The ALS Association reports annual ALS-related costs can reach $250,000. What individual families pay varies. Insurance gaps don’t just drain savings. They weigh on the heart. Families ask, “How do we manage without losing everything we’ve worked for?” I wish I had a formula that made the numbers behave. I don’t. Start by asking your ALS care team or the ALS Association’s benefits counselors for help reviewing coverage, appealing denials, and finding assistance programs. Talk honestly about what your household can sustain. Accept support. Some costs overwhelm even careful planning. Struggling financially does not mean you failed. Then comes the harder question: “How do I overcome the guilt of what my care costs?” I wrestle with that, too. I see the bills. I see my family’s sacrifices. Gratitude and guilt sometimes show up together, and guilt acts like it pays rent! I’m learning to say, “Thank you for loving me,” without adding, “I’m sorry I need so much help.” My care has a cost. My worth does not come with a price tag. And my family’s love cannot be measured by how much they can afford. This is the ultimate test of my faith. I pray, work on the numbers, and sometimes worry again before the “amen” has cooled off. Through it all, I hold on to God’s words: “My grace is sufficient for thee.” —2 Corinthians 12:9, KJV ALS may have changed my financial priorities, but it hasn’t changed my value. Nobody should have to choose between financial security and giving someone they love the care and dignity they deserve. I’m working on reducing what I owe. I refuse to reduce who I am. ALS IS EXPENSIVE, BUT MY LIFE IS PRICELESS!