January 2nd, 2025. The year barely began, and already, chaos had made its entrance. I’d set out with a resolution, determined to change my mindset—less about me and what I wanted, more about gratitude for what I had. I’d told myself to be thankful: for life, for family, for the work God had given me. A bright future seemed within reach. Sounds solid, right? A good plan?

But life has this way of testing your intentions.

That day started off beautiful. My dad, my wife, and Gideon all piled into the car for a family outing in Philadelphia. It was supposed to be a day of connection, fun, and even a romantic date planned with Bethel for later. For once, it all seemed aligned, like everything was just… good.

Then the bleeding started.

Blood filled my mouth, again. If you’ve ever tasted your own blood like that—thick, metallic, and unrelenting—you know it comes with a panic that gnaws at your chest. My fear wasn’t just about me anymore. I had a family. A wife. A child who needed his father. Death wasn’t an abstract concept; it was standing next to me, looking me in the eye.

I stepped out of the car and clinging to the hood. My dad asked, “What’s wrong?” I wanted to downplay it, but fear had me by the throat. The thoughts came rushing in, louder than anything else: “This is it. It’s over. God saved me once before, but maybe He’s done with me now. What about Bethel? What about Gideon? How will they get by without me? God, you can’t let this happen. It doesn’t make sense! You owe me!“

But here’s the hard truth I wouldn’t see until later: I’d put God in my debt. I thought He worked for me. That because He’d saved me once, He had an obligation to keep me alive now. I treated His first miracle—the one that kept me alive back in 2018—as some sort of contract He had to fulfill. If He let me die, then everything He’d done would’ve been meaningless. In my mind, God owed me.

How wrong I was.

Psalm 115:3 says, “Our God is in heaven; He does whatever pleases Him.” At first glance, that verse can sound harsh, even authoritarian. But the truth is, God’s sovereignty doesn’t diminish His goodness. Whether He lets us live a long life or calls us home tomorrow, He remains worthy of praise. His plans are higher than ours, even when we can’t understand them.

Sitting in that emergency room, I saw it all so clearly. My entitlement wasn’t just toward God—it trickled down to everyone around me. I expected things from my parents, my siblings, my in-laws. I demanded their attention, their presence, their sacrifices, all because I thought I deserved it. It was like an invisible thread of narcissism running through my life, and I hadn’t even noticed it tightening around me.

And then came the girl. She was screaming in pain, her cries cutting through the sterile air of the hospital. Her mom looked embarrassed, trying to quiet her. I remember the nudge in my spirit: Pray for her. But I resisted. I told myself, I’m here to get fixed, not to fix anyone else.

Then they called my name.

I missed the moment. God had given me a chance to step outside myself, to bring His love into someone else’s suffering, and I let it slip by. That realization hit me harder than the fear of dying. If God was gracious enough to keep me alive, shouldn’t I be gracious enough to serve Him, even in the smallest ways?

The tests came back: walking pneumonia and six blood clots in my lungs. Six. The doctor recommended I stay, and suddenly, anger welled up. Not just fear, but rage—at God, at my circumstances, at the unfairness of it all. I felt like a stubborn child, digging my heels in, demanding an explanation. But I thought You healed me! What was the point of sparing me in 2018 if I’m just going to die now?

Yet even in my anger, God was patient. He let me wrestle with my doubts, my entitlement, and my fear. And in that wrestling, He began to soften my heart. Sitting in that hospital bed, I started to see things differently. Life isn’t about what we think we’re owed—it’s about what we’ve already been given.

Romans 8:28 came to mind: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” It didn’t mean everything would make sense right now. It didn’t mean I’d get the answers I wanted. But it reminded me that God’s plans are always for my ultimate good, even when they don’t align with my immediate desires.

As the days passed, I kept reflecting on that missed opportunity to pray for the girl in the ER. It wasn’t about religion—it was about relationship. A relationship with a God who loves us so much that He sent His Son to redeem us, to bring us back to Him. That realization shifted something in me. I don’t know how much time I have left—none of us do. But I want whatever time I have to reflect His love.

Since being discharged, I’ve had to make some tough decisions. The blood thinners mean I can’t continue with combat sports, at least not the way I used to. No more sparring, no more intense contact. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but it’s a small sacrifice compared to the price Jesus paid. My purpose isn’t tied to kickboxing or any earthly achievement—it’s tied to Him.

Titus 3:5 sums it up perfectly: “He saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to His own mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit.” That’s the hope I’m clinging to now. Not the hope of a long life, but the hope of a life well-lived for His glory.