Move: Good Spirit lead me on level ground!
This past week, has been all about move(ment), as I continue to journey through the Valley of the Shadow. Movement is no longer automatic. Thinking, focusing, balancing, and even orienting myself in space can feel uncertain. There are days when my body hesitates before my mind catches up, and days when my mind and eye tire long before my body wants to move. Simple transitions—standing up, turning my head, walking into another room—require intention and caution. This prayer above has become literal: I am asking God to lead me on level ground, where each step is steady and safe, and where movement is guided rather than forced.
Last Sunday, as I fellowshipped at Olivet Baptist Church, two worship songs spoke deeply to me and became my prayer for the week: Move and Come Heal our Land. The song Move is a simple request to our Saviour—for God’s Spirit to breathe life back into places that feel stalled. I am also learning to build margins for healing and forgiveness. Sometimes it is easier to forgive oneself than to forgive others, especially those within the body of Christ who cause pain and suffering while believing their actions are holy, anointed, and appointed. Post-concussion recovery feels like being suspended between what was and what will be. This song reminds me that movement often begins internally—quietly and invisibly—before it ever appears in the body.
Ordinary tasks have become unexpectedly difficult. Carrying objects, navigating crowds, focusing on conversations with more than one person, or multitasking can quickly overload my system. One misjudged moment of movement was enough to shatter my iPhone—an everyday object broken by a body and brain still relearning coordination. That moment reminded me how fragile and precious careful movement now is. Recovery has taught me to slow my pace, narrow my focus, and attend carefully to the path directly in front of me.
There are days when worth feels measured by output, and the limitations of traumatic brain injury make that measuring stick feel especially cruel. My motto "My utmost for His Highest" does not look like what I am producing for the Kingdom of God right now. I often feel useless—less doctor, less son, less brother, less Joshua—because I cannot do what once came easily. Everything takes longer. Conversations require more energy. Presence costs more than it used to. The valley exposes how easily I confuse what I do with who I am. Yet the Shepherd never defines the sheep by speed or stamina. He calls them by name—and in 1998, He singled out this black sheep to be part of the family of God.
Ministering in this season looks different. It is quieter and slower, marked by margins I did not choose but am learning to honor. I am discovering that ministry does not disappear when capacity changes—it transforms. I am learning to minister from listening rather than speaking, from presence rather than performance, from prayer rather than productivity. “He leads me beside still waters” now looks like shortened days, reduced screen time, careful pacing, and a deep trust that God is still at work even when I must stop. Joshua 5:14 gives me language for this Valley season. Sometimes the most faithful “move” is not pushing harder, but yielding more deeply, and praying with patience for the Lord to repair, restore, and renew. The Captain of my life's presence reframes the valley— my worth isn’t measured by speed or output, but by belonging and being called by name by my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
A sense of worthlessness can creep in most strongly when progress feels invisible. Traumatic brain injury recovery rarely offers clear milestones. Psalm 23 steadies me here: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” One of those enemies is shame—the voice that tells me I am behind, replaceable, or failing; not good enough to minister, to love, to lead, or to be an uncle or a dad. Our Father’s table contradicts that voice. It declares provision, dignity, and belonging even when symptoms remain. I trust that He is shaping and refining me for the next holy, anointed, and appointed ministry tasks He has prepared.
This is why the worship song Heal Our Land has become a personal prayer. Healing begins with truth—naming what is broken. To confess that both my body and soul are wounded, that I cannot repair them on my own, and that I need the Lord’s healing through His holy, anointed, and appointed care. I am learning that leadership can look like vulnerability, that faithfulness can look like rest, and that God’s power is not diminished by my limitations. I am weak—but He is strong.
The Shepherd’s promise is not that the valley will be brief, but that it will not be empty. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life”—even now, even here. As I adjust to this next chapter—ministering and loving with a changed nervous system, a broken body, an injured brain, and a slower mind, while admitting how often I placed patients and ministry ahead of my own health and family—I am learning that my worth has never been rooted in capacity. It has always been rooted in belonging. Daily, I do my best to trust that the Lord will create margins for renewal and restoration in me, to heal this broken body, heart, soul and mind - So that one day I can be his hands and feet again.
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