One year ago was a life changing event in our family. I will testify to remember and to remind my children and my grandchildren what the Lord has done.
Maezie, our 13 year old daughter at the time, was hit by a car while on a run one year ago today. She lives and tells her story and runs today and is stronger than ever.
I used to want to forget the horror of it all, because I saw the whole thing, but now, I never want to forget. I have tasted and seen the goodness of God.
….by the blood the the Lamb and the word of our testimony…..(Rev. 12:11)
Most of this I have written before but I added some details that I didn’t have the guts to share a year ago.
Have you ever screamed out to God so loudly, so desperately, that it felt like heaven shook?
May 3, 2025, at 12:30 p.m., I did exactly that.
Not because I am anyone special, but because I AM is exactly who He says He is. God called himself I AM when Moses asked him who he should say sent him on assignment, and He said I AM who I AM. I AM was there that day and that is all I needed to know.
In that moment, I needed God more than I had ever needed anyone or anything in my life. And He came.
I didn’t hold back. I didn’t filter. I cried out—loud and raw—with no fear of what anyone around me thought. I have never been more afraid, and yet, I have never been more fearless. Desperation will do that. It strips everything else away and leaves you with the Truth.
My daughter, Maezie Ann-Grace—whose name has always sounded a lot like Amazing Grace—lay lifeless in the street. She had been hit by a car at full speed, and I watched the whole thing happen. I knew instantly what I had just witnessed. No one could have survived that. I knew she was gone.
But I also knew who held her life.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. He gave her life and breath in my womb, and I wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet. Not like this.
I ran to her. I was the first one to reach her broken, lifeless body.
I didn’t touch her.
The moment was sacred and devastating—holy in one way, hellish in another.
Life and death collided in that street.
I didn’t pray the way I’ve prayed my whole life.
I prayed like everything depended on it—because it did.
It wasn’t me, not really. It was the Holy Spirit groaning through me, in sounds too deep for words, like thunder from the foundation of the earth—but coming out of my own mouth.
I cried out to God because there was no one else to cry to.
I prayed for life. I prayed for breath. I prayed for healing.
I didn’t call anyone else. I didn’t look around for help. No one else mattered in that moment—only God.
He was the one who knit her together inside me.
So I begged Him—right there in the street—to knit her back together again.
May 3, 2025, was just four days after we had the biggest celebration: the launch of my first book, Taste and See. A devotional I co-wrote with my best friend, created to invite people into deeper conversations with God and with one another. Though devotional in nature, it was deeply personal—rooted in my life as a mom and NayNay (that’s my grandma name) of many.
It felt like a new season—an unfolding chapter, a fresh rhythm. I could sense the shift, the excitement. Something was changing.
The title Taste and See comes from Psalm 34:8: “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” And He is—so good. But just four days after celebrating that launch, our world stopped.
Four days before the accident, life felt an absolute high with the Lord. And then, on May 3, just minutes before the accident—I was lying on my bed, complaining to God. I was frustrated. Tired. Worn out by motherhood and the daily grind. It felt like I was stuck in a never-ending loop: wake up, serve the family, go to bed, repeat. I found myself grumbling about the very life I asked God for—the life I thank Him for everyday – the life He generously and graciously gave.
If you know the Lord, you know He treasures our honesty, our confession, our openness before Him. But He also despises complaining, especially complaints about the very things He gave us as gifts. That day, I knew I had crossed a line—from raw honesty into entitled complaint. And He knew it too. It wouldn’t be the first or the last time I’d forget His goodness and grumble about His gifts. But, it will be the last time I do it without conviction and quick repentance.
I love being a mom. I “mother” people that don’t need it and may not even want it. The thing that was tripping me up, is I don’t really know anything else I’ve been living and breathing motherhood for so long, it’s become the air I move through. And usually, it’s the heartbeat of my life and my testimony—my voice when I talk about the Lord, the very things I bring to the Lord, are most always wrapped up in motherhood. My first blog that I had 13 years ago was titled, Mom on a Mission, because that’s exactly what I am. I’m on a mission to know God and to help my kids and Grands, and other moms to know Him too; through His word and through the life we live.
But recently, I thought the page was turning to a new chapter. I had new dreams——just four days earlier. I imagined God using that same “Mom on a Mission” voice in a new way. A new rhythm. A new role. Still a mom of many, but maybe now walking into new territory. Going places and doing things I haven’t yet experienced. Watching people learn and grow in relationships as they Taste and See the goodness of God. Encouraging people in their own life wherever they are to be the salt and light so they may reflect the very goodness they have tasted and seen.
I pulled myself up—complaining heart and all—and did a mom errand. Maezie was on a long run, and it was the hottest day of the year so far, nearly 80 degrees; it was a gorgeous day. It was a day that felt like we had turned a corner and were done with winter and cold. The day was bright and warm.
Once I got into the light of day, felt the sun on my face, I felt regret. Regret for complaining. honestly, Complaining about being needed as a mom—about being used in the very way God made me—was selfish and stupid. The enemy knows where to slither in and tell lies and make us feel negative and steals our joy. It was gross and as I moved off that bed of complaint I knew and God knew that I was out of line and he was right there to turn my heart back to Him and forgive me and sent me on my way with refreshing water.
I filled a water bottle and got in my car to bring it to Maezie. She was training for her first half-marathon. A bunch of us in the family were preparing for the Billings Marathon and Half-Marathon, and running had become part of our rhythm, especially on the weekends when we could get some longer runs in. We had our routes, our own training programs, different schedules and distances—but we were very much doing it together. We were keeping track of each other and cheering for one another and running together whenever we could.
Maezie and Reece, sister and brother ages 13 and 17, had started their run later than usual that day. It also happened to be the hottest day of the year so far—beautiful, but 80 degrees. Reece told Maezie on one of their passes by each other to call me and ask me to bring her water. They were running together, but have a different pace and the same loop, so they would pass by one another every once in awhile. He thought she looked hot and tired.This request for water to be brought to the runner wasn’t unusual; we did this for each other on long-run days—bring fuel and hydration when someone needed it. Usually, we’d meet up with the runner mid-route and hand off what they needed and give them an encouraging word or pat on the backside to keep them going.
When I was close to where I thought Maezie should be I called her to ask where she was exactly so I could catch up with her and give her water. She said, “At church.” Our church is close to home and has a great running loop just across the road. I was confused—and honestly, a little frustrated—when I pulled into the parking lot. Why would she have me bring her water if she was just waiting at the church? I asked why she didn’t just go inside and get a drink. She practically lives there—she’s there at least three times a week and knows the place inside and out.
She said she wasn’t sure if the doors were unlocked. But the parking lot was full. None of that made much sense to me.
I told her it was just a bad running day—that she’d started too late—and that she should get in the car and come home with me. But she was determined to finish. She only had a few miles left and she wanted to finish what she set out to do.
She drank the water and said again she’d finish. Just three miles to go.
I pulled out of the parking lot and passed her as she made her way to the sidewalk, getting ready to cross the road and return to the running trail. I kept watching her in my rearview and side mirrors. And then I felt it—that strange, sinking feeling. I could see it in my mind before I saw it with my eyes. Something didn’t look right; she didn’t look left.
I saw her glance to her right, then take a stride, maybe a stride and a half, into the street.
And when she stepped, she stepped directly in front of a car.
The car hit her at full speed—accelerating, in a rush to get to where the driver was going.There was no braking and no swerving. I saw my daughter’s body smash into the front of that black Dodge Durango, then get flung like a rag doll—thrown through the air, landing hard on the road and half way on the sidewalk. She was hit by the car on one side and smashed into the pavement on her other side. All sides of her body and her head took full impact.
I remember screaming at the top of my lungs, pounding the steering wheel with everything I had. I was talking straight to God.
“That’s my daughter!” I screamed.
I whipped the car around and sped back to the church parking lot. The world felt like it stopped—utterly silent, except for the sound of my own voice. I ran to Maezie’s body—because that’s all it was at that point. It was lying there in a heap, twisted and bleeding.
I rushed to her but couldn’t bring myself to touch her. It was too awful. Instead, I prayed—hard. Not with words, but with sounds and groans I didn’t know could come from me. Prayer is how we communicate with God, and in that moment, I was fully engaged—completely unaware of anything or anyone around me. I had a direct line to the God of the universe, and I clung to it with everything I had.
Then I saw someone kneel at Maezie’s head, facing me. He said his name was Jeremy, and he was a flight nurse. He was not on duty, God had brought him—just passing by on his way to his kids’ track meet. He and his wife, Traci, had seen the wreckage and assumed it was a multi-car accident because of the debris scattered across the road. Traci looked over and recognized me from Bible study. They had no idea what had happened—or that the girl I was standing over was my daughter.
Jeremy jumped out to help, he got on his knees- and used his hands to carefully cradle her head and check her c-spine. I didn’t actually see him at first. I just saw his knees beside her. He was kneeling—hands carefully cradling her head, checking her c-spine. It reminded me of how our pastor ends every service: “Go be the hands and feet and mouthpiece of Jesus.” In that moment, God sent exactly that. He sent Jeremy—His hands, His knees, His voice—Jesus in the flesh.
This was that. There is no other way to describe it. Jeremy was doing what he was professionally trained to do and also what he is commissioned to do at the end of service every Sunday.
I prayed for life and healing and breath. I didn’t think about or call anyone else—nobody else mattered. Only God. He put her together in my womb, and I begged Him to put her back together on that street.
Jeremy’s arrival didn’t slow my prayers; it only deepened them. I cried out louder. I could feel God moving. At one point, I placed my hands over Jeremy’s, and I felt it—I knew God was doing something. A man on the sidewalk kept telling me to call 911. He said it over and over, but I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t get my phone to work. I handed it to him numbly, and he made the call for me.
Looking back, I understand: God and I were still on the line. I couldn’t hang up. We weren’t finished. Talking to 911 would’ve interrupted that call.
“Call to Me and I will answer you and tell you great and incomprehensible things you do not know.” (Jeremiah 33:3)
When the man on the sidewalk made the call, it kept connecting to my bluetooth in my car. I had left the car running and the door wide open. He was going back and forth to my car trying to figure out what was going on. It finally got all connected to the right people and the man got the information out that we needed emergency help.
Time stood still and sped up straight into eternity. I didn’t track things well. Later, we checked Life360 and talked to people who were there. The consensus is that four minutes passed before Maezie showed any signs of life.
Four minutes.
She was lifeless—not a breath, not a flutter. I believe God Himself was holding His breath. And when He breathed again, so did she.
As I prayed with my hands over Jeremy’s, moment I will never forget: she took a sweet, slow, gentle breath. Almost a sigh. In… and out. The first sign of life. It was heaven on earth. Jeremy said, “That’s it, that’s what we are looking for.”
Emergency responders began to arrive. Maezie began to move. She was not consious but trying to move and groaning. When the ambulance, firetruck, and police all arrived. It became a crime scene. They blocked off the street. There were people everywhere—surrounding Maezie. The medics strapped her to a backboard and began reporting her status. Jeremy was still helping. He told them what he saw when he first arrived—he mentioned that her pelvis was likely broken.
As I leaned over the curb and kept praying, I looked to my right. There was a woman sitting there, crying. Sunglasses on, tears streaming down her face.
She said she was the one who hit Maezie.
She said she was sorry.
My heart broke for her. I told her right away that I saw the whole thing, and it wasn’t her fault. I meant it. I kept telling the police the same thing, every time they interviewed me over the next several days. I told them again and again: the driver couldn’t have avoided it.
When they got Maezie loaded into the ambulance, I told the paramedics I needed to go with her. They said there wasn’t room. I insisted, “I’m her mom; I have to go with her.” They finally relented, telling me I could ride in the front. I climbed in, still praying. Someone reached across me and buckled me in, and I could hear Maezie moaning in the back. My mouth was so dry, I remember desperately searching for water. I don’t think I have have been that thirsty in my whole life. I needed water, but more than that I needed that living water we are promised. I couldn’t find any, I even said something to the driver, almost begging for a waterbottle – even his personal one would have been a gift, but he was busy doing his job and didn’t even respond. It wasn’t his job to comfort me or to serve me water so I decided to make some calls.
That day, I knew exactly who I was.
I don’t always. I struggle to take my place, even when it’s mine. I question myself. But that day, I knew. I knew I was God’s child. I knew I was Maezie’s mom. I stood strong in my role. I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain of anything in my life. I didn’t need to explain myself or apologize—I just stood firm in the fact that God had us, and I was exactly where He wanted me to be.
It’s hard to describe how completely helpless and desperate I felt in those moments—and at the same time, how completely sure I was of everything I’d ever known or believed.
I had tasted a different, kind of goodness from God. The kind of goodness that makes your heart hurt.
Not the easy kind. Not the kind you frame and hang on the wall.
This was the kind of goodness that breaks your heart open and fills it at the same time. The kind that leaves you breathless and shaking, but somehow more whole than you’ve ever been. The kind of thing you can’t unsee or the bittersweetness you can’t untaste or unknow—because it brands you. It marks you. It changes everything.
As we drove to St. Vincent Hospital, I dialed a few numbers but hung up before they could answer—I had no idea how to say what needed to be said. Kole, our oldest son, second in birth order. He was the first to pick up that I actually let go through. I told him Maezie had been hit by a car while running and he needed to tell everyone to pray. I didn’t specify any details about the accident or who the “everyone” that needed to pray was. He could hear the sirens in the background and asked how bad it was. I simply said, “Really bad.” That was all I could say. The call ended there.
Next, I called Divine. Divine Melody is our bonus daughter. She is from Uganda, and she is living with as a daughter. She lives with us and is a part of our family in every way possible. We are good friends with her parents and she has spent the last few years living with us and going to school. We love her like a daughter and she is a sister to our kids. Her and Maezie are as close as two sisters can be.
Her voice was so sweet, as you can imagine with the middle name Melody. When she answered, she gave a beautiful greeting. I didn’t even give her a chance to brace herself before delivering the news. “Maezie was hit by a car. We’re headed to the hospital,” I said. She nearly fainted, the shock was so overwhelming. It was horrible to tell her that way. I threw those words out and hung up, not even giving her a chance to respond. I wasn’t thinking, and I certainly couldn’t say it again. Once those words are out, you can’t take it back.I tried to call a few more people but just hung up. I couldn’t bring myself to speak it again.
Once calls were finally being made—asking others to pray, Heaven shook again as an army of prayer warriors came marching to His throne from all over the world.
When we got to the hospital, a large team of medical staff were waiting for Maezie. As we walked in, they wheeled her in on her stretcher and a chaplain was there to meet me. I asked if I could stay with Maezie, but they said no—she needed their full attention, and there were too many people in the room. The chaplain escorted me to the family waiting room.
My friend, Jennie, the pastor’s wife, was the first to show up. She must’ve heard from someone at the church who’d seen what was happening.She showed up with great compassion. Her son had just been through a terrible accident a few weeks prior. She knew exactly how I was feeling and knew what to do, just be there.
The doctor came in shortly after and told me they needed to intubate Maezie to prepare her for a CT scan—she wasn’t stable enough to go into the machine. But just minutes later, they came back and said she had stabilized and didn’t need to be intubated after all. They also thought her pelvis was broken, but it wasn’t. In fact, it was one of the few places on her body that hadn’t been bruised or scraped.
The reports kept getting better with every passing minute. Her spleen was slightly lacerated, but they would just monitor it. They thought she had a partially collapsed lung, but that wasn’t the case. It felt like God was healing her as the doctors worked through her injuries.
Charlie showed up right in the midst of the updates and tests as they were giving the initial reports. Divine and Maddie, her friend that she was having coffee with showed up. Divine looked like she had run a marathon. She went to the wrong hospital at first and when she realized it, she just started running. He mind was racing and she couldn’t slow down until she knew what was happening. The two hospitals in town are very close to one another and she came in to the right hospital breathless and terrified. Mik (our son) had been at home, and his friend Andre was on his way to pick him up when the news reached them that Maezie had been in an accident. Mik took care of things at the house and got Cellie gathered up and headed to the hospital. Andre was so good to Cellie on the way to the hospital, telling her that she just needed to be strong, that nobody really knew what the situation was. Kole and Silas and Rachel came too and we all were in the family room waiting for any news they would give us.
The hospital staff let Charlie and I go in to see Maezie, even though she was still in the ER. She barely opened her eyes and whispered, “Dad, I’m NOT okay.” It nearly broke us both. Charlie tried to reassure her, telling her everything would be alright, but she was in excruciating pain and throwing up every few minutes.
The police were in the room at that point, and they had taken all of Maezie’s personal belongings, including her new running shoes. They were still treating every piece of material they could find as evidence.
The days that followed were hard, but they went by fast. We spent four nights in the hospital. By the end of it, Maezie couldn’t take it anymore—she wanted to go home. She begged, sang, cried—anything to not be there one more day. Four nights was her limit.
Saturday, the day of the accident, she threw up constantly. Every time she woke up or moved, she got sick. They didn’t want her eating yet, just in case she ended up needing surgery. They still weren’t sure. Everything was uncertain.
By Sunday evening, the doctors decided to start medication to help reduce the swelling in her brain. Peak swelling usually hits around 72 hours, and we weren’t even close to that. But things felt like they were moving in the wrong direction. We could feel it. It was like watching the tide come in when you’re not ready—slow, but unstoppable.
At one point, I left to take a quick shower. When I came back, they had moved her to a different room—one where she could be more closely monitored. That room became our world. It was always full of people, but somehow always quiet. The lights stayed low. No noise, no bright colors, no distractions. People with brain injuries need quiet..
Maezie would barely crack her eyes open, just for a second here or there. But even in that dazed, foggy state, she was aware. She knew exactly what was happening. She recognized people by name as they entered the room. She greeted them quietly, somehow fully present even as her body rested and her mind healed. Later, she forgot who was there. She lost pieces of those days, like they were dreams. But in the moment, she was both out of it and completely tuned in. It’s hard to explain. But it was holy. Holy is the word I use, because it was something I had never experienced before, it was hard to see and yet, it drew you in.
Eventually, we had to tell her what happened. She didn’t know. She remembered fragments, she felt the pain—but had no knowledge or memory of what had happened.
When we told her, she paused, like she was processing the information.
Her only word was, “Sad.”
And that one word said everything.
One of the things I learned through this experience—and then again as I looked back over my life—is that the hardest things and the greatest joys often happen side by side. This is the space I keep calling holy. It is standing at the scene of a terrible accident and knowing God is right there. It is watching your daughter lie unconscious in a hospital bed and seeing, with new clarity, how many family members and friends love her, care, and pray. It is witnessing your daughters become sisters in a way you never knew existed. It’s watching your husband be a father who stands the quietest in the room and has the biggest presence.
This is holy. It is sacred and rare, and it cannot be felt or seen without the hard. Maybe it has always been there, waiting, but we don’t recognize it until suffering forces our eyes open; usually in the exact places we just want to close our eyes and pretend it isn’t happening. God does not move—but we do. And in our desperation, we move toward Him in ways we never knew were possible.
Reece and Maezie were running together that day. Reece is our son that is closest to Maezie. He and her have always been tight. She used to call him her prince when she was little. Reece was training for his second marathon. He was graduating a year early from high school and right in the mix of finishing school a year early he was training for a marathon.
They had started out on the same loop that day, but Reece was moving faster—he had more miles to cover. He gradually pulled ahead and left her to run alone. It was Reece who told Maezie she should call me for water; he was worried about the heat. He was coaching her along and helping her get through her long run.
When Maezie was hit by the car, Reece didn’t know. He was still running. As he came back around the loop and saw all the emergency vehicles, his brain scrambled to make sense of the scene. Then he saw me, bent over Maezie. I looked up, and our eyes met. He bolted across the road.
There she was—Maezie, lying on the ground. The first word out of Reece’s mouth wasn’t one of faith, but it definitely started with the letter F.
All I said was, “You need to call your dad.”
Reece didn’t hesitate. He didn’t stop to process, ask questions, or look for direction. He just got to work, starting with a call to Charlie.
Charlie had been out mowing the lawn when the call came. He was confused—when he went outside that morning, everyone had been lounging around, still taking it easy. But Reece got his attention. Thinking back I think Charlie was in denial. He thought his family was safe inside the house and he was outside mowing. Once Reece got the information to land, Charlie jumped into the pickup and headed straight to the scene.
By the time he arrived, we had already left in the ambulance. He was left to deal with the car and a line of police officers. He told Reece to take care of the vehicle while he rushed to the hospital.
Our kids showed up.
Lashae and Charsie—the two oldest girls in the family—were in the middle of throwing a baby shower for one of their girlfriends when their phones started blowing up. They live in a small town 2 hours from where we live. The phones began to blow up with texts, calls, missed calls—it was the other kids trying desperately to reach them. Finally, Chaney (Lashae’s husband and the oldest of the kids in the family) sent a message that cut through the chaos:
“911 – Call me now.”
When Lashae called back, Chaney delivered the news. And in an instant, the girls dropped everything and started loading up. The little girl gang, which is what we call our 7 Granddaughters, didn’t know all the details yet, but they knew enough to know there was a serious situation. They got in the car and kept as quiet as possible. The car was hot and stuffy and full of tension and they did the best they could to just hold in the discomfort and wait to see what was happening and where they were going.
Luke is our only son that doesn’t live in Montana. He lives in Oregon, and he was enjoying camping with his family—completely off the grid. Charsie poured all her energy into tracking him down. Her and Lashae and the girl gang were driving to the hospital with very spotty service the whole two hour trip. Charsie didn’t have any paper, so she scribbled names and numbers all over her arms, legs and her hands, wherever there was space. A living roadmap of who to call and what to try next.
My sister Marlece, who heard what was happening and called the girls on their drive. She made a very valid point: it was okay if Luke didn’t find out right away. But I think two things were true at once. One—Charsie needed him to know, because she said, “Luke is my best friend, and he needs to know.” And two—though no one dared say it out loud—we were all afraid Maezie might not make it.
It was bad.
It was worse than we were telling anyone.
Because we had to believe.
We had to hold onto hope.
But the truth was… we didn’t know. Not then.
Charsie finally got ahold of a friend who knew the general area where Luke might be camping. She gave him one job:
“Find Luke.”
The friends’ name is Aaron. He’d been in Luke’s wedding. And that day, he stepped up—not just as a friend, but as a groomsman on a mission. He took the orders from Charsie and went on little information and a big assignment. He drove deep into the woods until he found him. Then he gave Luke and Maggie a brief version of what had happened and told them to drive until they had cell service—now—and check in with the family.
Our family showed up in every way they could. We were coming in like soldiers to a battle.
The ones who were close enough to be there physically, came. We were only allowed four people in the room. But when Maezie was wheeled in on her bed, there were already nearly two dozen of us gathered and waiting.
We closed in around that hospital bed like an army surrounding one of their own—wounded but still here.
We circled up.
We laid hands.
And we prayed.
There are moments in life that change everything. Moments that not only shift the course of your story, but also reveal who you truly are—and what, and who, you believe in. This was one of those moments for me, for Maezie, and for our entire family.
There’s no warning, no planning, no preparation when tragedy strikes. You’re in it before you even know it’s happening. And however you are before the moment—that’s how you are in it. There’s no time to become someone else, or believe something different.
Our family came together. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real, and it was beautiful.
It felt surreal—to be that heartbroken, that afraid—and still to taste and see the goodness of God in what was, without question, the worst moment of our lives.
When the kids arrived and Maezie was wheeled into her hospital room, we gathered around her bed to pray. Everyone prayed in their own way, but only a few of us could get past the lump in our throats and speak out loud. I remember Divine praying. In her prayer, she said that Maezie’s favorite verse at the time was Romans 8:18:
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is going to be revealed to us.”
I was stunned. And, if I’m honest, a little afraid of what that verse might mean in that moment. It shook me. I could feel the weight of glory pressing in—and it terrified me.
I had already asked myself a question that haunted me: Will I still praise God, no matter how this turns out?
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. It was raw. Real. And I was scared—scared to ask it, and even more scared to answer.
I hoped I would. I believed I would. But I didn’t want to be tested.
Do I think God caused this because I had been lying on my bed, complaining?
Not for a minute.
But do I believe He used it to reveal a place in my heart that wasn’t fully trusting Him—where I was, in truth, accusing Him of not seeing, not caring?
Yes indeed.
In those first minutes, as I prayed over Maezie, I stepped back—just a few feet away—and looked up. I asked God to forgive me. I could still feel His presence, but I also knew what had passed between us just minutes earlier. I needed to clear the air.
And He did forgive me. I felt it immediately—a wave of compassion that settled over me like a blanket. He felt the same love for me as I laid on my bed as I felt for Maezie as she laid on that street. He knows I have messed up and mistepped and misunderstood and miscalculated and made mistakes with giant consequences and yet He stood over me, and loved me at my worst and my best.That moment became a holy exchange: my repentance for His mercy. I felt his love and compassion on me as I was feeling such love for my daughter.
I could feel Him say, “That’s my daughter.”
Have I complained again since then? About the same thing?
Yes.
But now, I see it sooner. I recognize the drift. And when I do, I repent. I turn my heart back toward Him, and He meets me there—every time.
Not long after we had gathered around as a small group of family and a few close friends, the kids started flooding in. Youth pastors, classmates, church friends, kids from school. I could feel it—there was something more going on. Something bigger than what any of us could see.
God was doing something.
I still don’t fully understand it. But there was this pull, especially for young people. They were drawn to that room in a way I’d never seen before. Maybe it’s normal for kids to gather when one of their own is hurt—but this felt different.
It was like a revolving door. They just kept coming. And somehow, every one of them seemed to know they were welcome. They didn’t knock or wait to be invited. They acted like they belonged there—because they did.
No one told them to be quiet. They just were. It was reverent. Peaceful. Holy. There was hope in the room; even though it was only by faith that we could see through the roadrash and swollen eyes.
The nurses and doctors came and went without a word about the crowd. They didn’t object. They didn’t interfere. It was as if they knew—this was sacred space and it was healing for the exact patient they were caring for.
In those moments, it felt like some of the people walking through that door were angels. Not with wings or halos—but with an unspoken understanding, a quiet presence. They came to check in. To stand guard. To just be. Some even kneeled down and prayed quietly right there at Maezie’s bedside.
God was there. And He was showing us something.
I’ve thought over this a lot, trying to understand why kids wanted to come, why they felt welcome and needed to be by the bedside of their friend that didn’t know and likely wouldn’t remember their visit. I believe they needed to be there for reasons they don’t even know. We live in a culture that thinks kids need to be protected from hard things. We shelter them in one way and throw them into the world in other ways and tell them to have fun. I think they are drawn to real and authenticity. There was nobody dressing up this situation. They needed to be a part of the truth, and not be sheltered and not be told how to feel or what to think, just come as you are and see things as they are.
Maezie was in the hospital for four nights. On the third night, I pulled my recliner close to her bed and just sat with her—talking, listening, being there.
She was hurting. She was scared. And honestly, she was just tired of the whole thing. Tired of the pain, the pokes, the tests, the noise, the waiting.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked her something that even surprised me as it came out of my mouth:
“Maezie, what are you thankful for?”
I braced myself. I thought she might roll her eyes, or get frustrated. I wouldn’t have blamed her. But instead, something shifted.
The room changed.
She changed.
Her tone softened. Her body relaxed. The tension eased.
Right there in real time, I saw the truth of God’s Word come alive.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your graciousness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.
And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 4:4–7)
In the middle of a hospital room, with monitors beeping and pain still present, peace came. It didn’t make sense. But it didn’t need to.
God was near.
There are certain events in life that mark time—moments that become anchors in our memory. The accident was one of those markers for our family.
Divine was scheduled to lead worship at our church that weekend. We have a Saturday evening service and two on Sunday morning. She was ready to cancel. Devastated, she didn’t want to leave Maezie’s side.
As we stood around Maezie’s hospital bed, it hit me—Divine was supposed to sing. I asked her about it. She quietly replied, “I canceled.” I looked at her and said, “I think you need to do this. God still deserves our worship.”
Her body language said everything—she didn’t want to go. It was too soon, too heavy. Her eyes, her posture, even the air around her said no. But out of her mouth came something else: “If you want me to, I’ll do it.”
But she did it. She led worship through tears that evening. The next morning, Lashae and her daughters went to church and cried through the entire service. Divine and Lashae sang with broken hearts, but they declared with their voices that God is still faithful.
It was one of the hardest things to do – to sing when your heart is shattered and you want to hide. But it placed God back on the throne of their hearts, and on their lips. It reminded all of us that we will praise Him, no matter what. It may be painful, it may feel impossible—but once you’ve tasted and seen the goodness of God, you can’t unsee it. You can’t pretend you haven’t tasted.
Every song that weekend—each one chosen by the worship leader in advance—spoke of God’s faithfulness. It was as if they had to sing it in order to believe it. As if declaring it aloud gave the strength to live it in the midst of the trial.
I stayed with Maezie every night in the hospital. The first night, we were placed in the initial room, and thankfully, there was an extra bed for me. That night, the nurse came in to clean all of Maezie’s road rash. It was the first time I really saw the extent of her injuries—the raw, scraped places where the pavement had torn into her skin. It was hard to look at. But even in that pain, it was clear: we were living through a miracle.
On Sunday morning, Charlie walked into the room wearing a shirt I hadn’t seen in months. It was one Maezie had given him for Father’s Day a few years earlier. He had dug it out from the back of his closet. It was bright blue, with big bold letters that read:
“I’m a proud dad of a freaking awesome daughter – yes, she bought me this shirt.”
At that point, Maezie was mostly sleeping. When she did wake, her eyes barely opened. One was swollen completely shut; the other could only manage a tiny slit before the light overwhelmed her.
But that morning, she stirred, opened her eye just a crack, and said, “I got you that shirt.” Then she closed her eye and went right back to sleep.
She had, indeed, bought him that shirt. That small moment—just a few words—was a spark between father and daughter. It was a sign that her memory was intact. It was funny, and it was encouraging. In the midst of everything, it felt like a gift.
In my most desperate moment, I screamed, “That’s my daughter.” I heard it leave my lips, but it felt like something more. It wasn’t just my voice; it felt as though it was coming from God Himself. He was speaking of me, calling me His own. Every day since, I hear those words echoing in my heart, and I choose to believe it. I think of when Jesus was baptized, and God’s voice thundered from heaven, “This is my Son, whom I love; with Him, I am well pleased.”
As I reflect on that moment—what it meant in that instant and what it continues to mean for me—I am overwhelmed. The love that poured out in is a kind I’ve yet to fully comprehend. When Maezie stepped in front of that speeding car, my only thought was to save her. There was no anger, no disappointment, no need to revisit the rules—I simply wanted to protect her. I wanted the whole world to know that she was mine, and that I loved her beyond words.
I think this is how God sees us. I’ve known the Lord my entire life, and I love Him deeply. But when I hear Him say, “That’s my daughter,” I hear it differently now. I hear a love that would do anything—anything at all, even sacrifice His only Son—to save me and to proclaim to the world, “That’s my daughter.”
On the third day in the hospital, Maezie was finally mentally and physically ready for a shower. We hadn’t even managed to get all the gravel out of her hair yet.
The logistics alone took planning—how to get her through the agony of it, and how to learn what helping her shower at home might actually look like. Nurses and physical therapists gathered, along with Lashae and me. And then Lashae did what a sister does: she took over.
She climbed in with Maezie and scrubbed gently, working the gravel from her hair while the handheld shower went to town. Maezie is as private as they come, and Lashae understands that. So she preserved every ounce of her dignity by showering her with clothes on—both of them. Lashae stayed fully dressed, and Maezie wore what could have passed for a swimsuit. It made everything harder, and somehow more comfortable. The water ran over them both. They came out drenched—one of them clean, the other soaked and sweaty.
I stood by like a shower aide, holding supplies, passing shampoo, hairbrushes, towels. I felt the pain of it for Maezie, but also the healing—the cleansing, the enormity of that first step toward normalcy. Charlie had been sent on assignment to find a shower chair so we could replicate what we were learning when we got home.
When it was over, everyone was exhausted. Who knew a shower could make you feel so much better and completely spent at the same time? Pain takes energy.
Maezie used the walker to get to the shower and the wheelchair to get back to her room. That was all she had. The moment laid bare the extent of her injuries, and at the same time marked the beginning of something else—the slow, vulnerable return to living fresh and clean again
As soon as we got back from the shower we had a visit from Brooke Wagner who is a music therapist and also a beautiful Jesus loving soul, who also happens to go to our church and have kids the same age as our kids.
One day in the hospital, I felt desperate for worship music. I needed it. But Lashae paused. It didn’t feel right to her just yet. She asked the Lord, and He told her, “Be still.” So we kept it quiet. And then God sent Brooke—with her guitar. We didn’t need background music. We got to worship in person, in focus, in the moment. Maezie made the requests. Brooke played. The first song Maezie asked for was “All Hail, King Jesus.” It was a holy, healing moment—God’s timing, God’s way. So much better than anything we could’ve planned.
When Maezie got home, she went straight upstairs to her room. There, she felt safe—like she could finally relax and begin to heal. Her room is simple and small, and in the past, I’ve worried that it wasn’t enough. That maybe we should’ve done more, given her more. But in that moment, it was exactly where she needed to be. It was where she wanted to be.
And as I stood there, knowing she felt peace in that space, I felt something stir in me. A quiet realization: If this is how good it feels to see my daughter content, safe, and at rest in the place we’ve provided for her… I wonder if this is how God feels when we are content with where He’s placed us—with the things He’s given us.
Endurance
One of the words the doctors and physical therapists repeated often was endurance. Maezie would need to take time, be patient, and build endurance—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
The irony is that Maezie was endurance training when the accident happened. Endurance takes time; it requires you to endure something hard in order to build it. Now, that’s exactly what the doctors are telling her: endurance is what she needs. God, in His goodness, had already begun preparing her to understand what endurance really means before she would need it at this level.
What we didn’t realize at the time was that God was preparing all of us for the coming trial. For my birthday this year, my oldest girls wanted me to get a “running” tattoo on my ankle. After many sketches and ideas, the final design came down to one word—endurance.
I got the tattoo in March. Now, here we are in May, and the theme remains the same: endurance. God knew I would need it not only written on my heart, but also marked on my body as a constant reminder.
Paying for this accident became a whole God-story in itself. When the police told us the driver had neither a valid license nor insurance, it seemed straightforward at first: we’d use Christian Healthcare Ministries, the ministry we relied on instead of traditional insurance. As it turned out, nothing about it was simple or straightforward.
Getting hit by a car falls into a category no one seems able to clearly define.
Everyone wanted a report—a report that did not exist—and apparently car insurance often covers pedestrian accidents even when the pedestrian isn’t a driver. Somehow, in the small print, the parents and the unrelated car not involved can end up covering the costs. It was all incredibly unclear, and depending on who I talked to—and maybe even what the weather was like that day—I got a different answer every time. Each call went a little differently, and everything hinged on a report that was absolutely crucial and absolutely unavailable. Everything felt as clear as mud.
I made call after call and prayed prayer after prayer, trying to find answers in this giant gray area full of giant bills.
I had been here before—not in this exact circumstance, but in this same position, staring at a mountain of bills that felt impossible. And I had also seen God move mountains like this before, so I asked Him to do it again.
I was genuinely thankful for the bills, to be honest—thankful for the medical care Maezie received. No one ever hesitated or asked about our financial situation before treating her. Every single person gave their best, trusting they were doing important work that would be taken care of.
Several months into the endless phone calls and unfinished reports, I finally decided to apply for financial assistance. I worried I might be wasting everyone’s time. Being self-employed means some years are feast years and some are famine years, and it usually takes the feast years to pay for the famines. The year before had been a feast, but still—I filled out the paperwork, sent in the tax report, added a small explanation of our situation, and wrapped the whole bundle in big prayers over big bills. I trusted the Lord had a plan I couldn’t yet see. He did.
A few weeks later, I called to check on the next steps in climbing this mountain. When I gave my account number, they told me the balance was zero. I read the number again, certain I’d misread something. They repeated it: this account had a zero balance. I sat there in awe of the Lord—thrilled, humbled, overwhelmed.
A few days later, a letter arrived confirming it: the financial aid had come through and covered the bill in full. This kind of tangible mercy, grace, and forgiveness of debt is beyond my comprehension. And yet—I have seen it before. I am deeply grateful for the hospital’s generosity, but I am mostly thankful to God, humbled again by His faithfulness and His absolute goodness.
When I mentioned about the people gathered around Maezie’s bed as she was wheeled into her room, I mentioned friends and family. Some of the kids’ friends came right in with the family and then we had two friends that are more like family than friends. It was a sacred moment of prayer and closeness.
Two of the friends who sat quietly against the wall, waiting until it was time to step forward, were Kyle and Stan. Kyle was my closest childhood friend—woven into every childhood memory I have. She and Stan had just recently moved to Billings. The Taste and See party had been in their new house. Kyle and I wrote that book together, and we celebrated its completion just four days before the accident. They had moved here in obedience, following God’s direction even without knowing the next step. The easiest explanation to others was that they moved to be closer to us, and while that wasn’t the whole story, it was true enough. After years of living apart and doing life differently, it was time for us to come back together, committing to do life side by side for the rest of our days. We were thrilled God started that work here and now.
Because of Stan’s ALS diagnosis, we assumed we would be helping them sooner rather than later. The direction felt clear and exciting and straight from the Lord. They still had family and friends where they came from, but God made it unmistakable that this—Billings, us—was where they were meant to be. And we were thankful.
They came so we could be of help when needed. And then, on the day of the accident, God—as He often does—flipped the script. At least the script we had written in our own minds.
They came to help us instead, showing up in a way that only an old friend who knows your beginning and will stay to your end can do. Kyle and Stan were there at a moment’s notice and came back every single day. Kyle would pick me up from the hospital, drive me home for a shower and a good cry, and then take me back again. She asked the questions no one else would dare ask, and let me answer—or not. She stayed with my grandkids one day so their mother could be with Maezie. She cleaned my fridge. Only close, steady, God-sent friends do something so invasive and so needed. It was a blessing that hit me for weeks afterward. Who does that? Only friends who are servants of the Lord—friends who step in, keep watch, clean house, and carry you where you cannot carry yourself.
Our family is spread out over the United States and when this happened we all were hyper aware that we were connected as closely as possible through prayer. Everyone went to the Lord in unity and it felt like heaven.
Today, I sit here and I’m grateful. I got my daughter back, and she is full speed ahead. I know that others have a testimony that they are still waiting for healing or for heaven to see their loved one whole again. I have to trust the Lord is sovereign; He is God and He is good and I don’t get to know about everything He is doing and His timing.
I will conclude this part of the testimony by saying this year has been crazy, one of the hardest we have had as a family. We have faced so many challenges and trials. We didn’t get our miracle and then skip off into the sunset. We have endured a lot of things that had nothing to do with the accident. God!!!! He has taught us how to have endurance, He has trained us well and it doesn’t come without pain.
Think about “training” for an endurance race and that is what we are called to. God has been there the whole way, but we still have some mountains to climb. Good thing God has given us faith and endurance and a view from that mountain that is worth it. He is worthy!!! We will praise Him forever.
Consider it a great joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you experience various trials, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. James 1:2-4
