Slow Down
This Sunday, I experienced The Porter’s Gate for the first time when I heard two of their songs in a church service: “Slow Me Down” and “Nothing to Fear.” I didn’t arrive feeling strong and serene. My body carried the weight of recovery, with eye strain and brain fog. Through the service, I struggled to stay present and participated. While I struggled to listen and engage, I realized afterward that the Holy Spirit had brought me there to hear exactly those two songs.
On Monday, the nudge felt even clearer in relation to Porter's Gate. On a lunch date, my server’s name was Porter. It was a small detail, but it landed as a holy, annointed, and appointed moment. Our heavenly Father sees me in this season, and He is still speaking—patiently, quietly, in ordinary moments.
Recently, I had a small moment that made me fully embrace life as a traumatic brain injury (TBI) patient. I booked a MODO car. MODO is a B.C.-based car-sharing co-operative where members reserve a specific vehicle at its “home” parking spot. I've been a member of Modo since November 2025. Members use a membership FOB to unlock, lock, and access the car for a round-trip booking. I walked up to the vehicle expecting to open it like I always do with Evo. Evo is a one-way car-share service in Metro Vancouver where you typically locate a nearby car in the app and unlock it using Bluetooth on your phone/app . As I struggled to open the car, and later researched how to open it, reality hit: I needed a FOB. Modo had sent me an email in November, with a list of locations to pick up the FOB. I had forgotten to complete that vital step.
On the surface, it sounds like a simple oversight. But it wasn’t just an “oops” moment; it was the kind of mistake that made my stomach drop because it revealed how my brain can skip a crucial step that used to be automatic. In that instant, I felt confused, embarrassed, and oddly disoriented—like my internal “checklist” had vanished. Before the accident, I would have anticipated the steps without thinking: phone, keys, wallet, etc. Now, moments like this show me how much the concussion has changed the way my mind sequences tasks, remembers details, and holds information long enough to complete a routine. It’s not only forgetfulness; it’s the way the brain stalls, the way confidence wobbles, and the way a simple logistics problem suddenly feels overwhelming. Standing there in New Westminster, I felt the weight of a hard and hurtful truth: this isn’t just stress or being distracted—this is what it means to live with a traumatic brain injury (TBI). At this moment, recovery felt impossible, and the words of “Nothing to Fear.” Recovery may seem impossible, for me, it feels impossible to return to being Dr. Joshua Michael-Sievers. However, we know that nothing is impossible with the help of our Faithful Father, his Son, and the Holy Spirit who lives in me. I am learning to adjust my expectations, build new routines and safeguards, and accepting support without shame—because healing will happen on the holy annointed and appointed timeline of Christ the King.
I continue to hold onto the promises that even though I am not functioning at my usual capacity, I am still a beloved member of the Body of Christ and a Masterwork. I thank you all for your prayers. I have praise reports I want to set on the Shepherd’s table today: I’ve found a new neuro-optometrist, and I’m scheduled for an MRI of the brain—two tangible signs of provision and forward movement in the middle of the Valley of the Shadow.
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