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Worth the Cost
By David Borntreger
Malinda and I grew up in traditional and happy Amish homes. I have five brothers and five sisters; Malinda came from a family of twelve. After Malinda and I started our own family, we continued in the Amish way of life we had always known.
We began hungering for more of God, which led us to reading everything we could get our hands on about faith. And that caused us to question some of our traditions. I began to wonder why we didn’t minister to people outside our community, so one day I asked the bishop his views on supporting ministries like those supplying Bibles to people in China.
He said, “Our emphasis is on taking care of our own. We don’t have insurance, so if someone has a hospital bill, we help with that.” To me that didn’t make sense. The Bible talks about going into the world and preaching the Gospel. Little did I know my eyes were starting to be opened.
When I asked my dad why we didn’t reach out to people in other countries he said, “The thing is, if you go over to other countries it would threaten your culture.” For instance, we are not allowed to have photo identification. Even boarding a plane is not allowed in the community.
One of the books I read called out some of our practices as occultic. That got my attention. One of the practices the author questioned was water dowsing. Typically the person that is “dowsing” holds two sticks or rods and walks around a property in the hopes that the rods will dip, twitch, or cross when the person walks over underground water. This and other similar traditions had been rooted in our culture for many generations.
About five years ago, shortly after Thanksgiving, I went to talk to my dad about some of these issues the book had raised. When I arrived at his house, he happened not to be home, so I started talking to some of my brothers who still lived at home. I got a mixed reaction from them. Finally my dad came in and sat down. He listened a short time, and then in an authoritative voice I’d never heard before said, “You lay that book down and don’t quote it in this house again!”
I knew I was on to something big. I talked to a few other people, but then the bishop got after me. I didn’t realize the offense he would take. The Amish highly regard their forefathers and their traditions. The whole thing became a circus of sorts. Soon the whole community knew I was addressing issues, raising awareness. I was confronting our long-held traditions. The bishop said he didn’t want to defend water dowsing necessarily, but because one of the deacons he knew was still practicing it, he didn’t want to condemn it either.
I felt I had concrete evidence that the practice was wrong, but we were not allowed to condemn it because our forefathers had done it. Water dowsing opens the door to divination. Some people will use the rod for other purposes. They will ask it questions about the future. They know that the practice is not based on science, but they ascribe the results to God. I also learned about other people turning to other occultic practices, but the situation was being hushed up.
My wife and I studied more about the Holy Spirit with the input of some close friends. We became interested in certain biblical prophetic ministries – crazy for an Amish guy! I made a name for myself as a rebel.
Around this time, Malinda was studying the Bible. In our Amish church the ministers are the preachers; lay people have no opportunity for expression. The rest of us are given specific selected passages to read for the next service. We are discouraged from digging too deep into the Word or studying it on our own because our leaders are afraid we will be misled.
As Malinda would read a passage, she would say, “Look at this, David, they preach it this way, but the Bible says it this way.”
I would reply, “You can’t come against what the preachers preach,” to which she would reply, “But they aren’t preaching what the Bible says.”
I became more aware of what the preachers were preaching. They would always admonish us to keep the traditions of the elders. Our traditions are said to be biblically based, but sadly, much like the Pharisees, we rely on the traditions more than we rely on God. In Matthew 15 the Pharisees and teachers of religious law got after Jesus for allowing His disciples to break the commands (such as washing their hands). Jesus told them they were violating the direct commandments of God because of their traditions. I became aware of so many similarities between the Orthodox Jews and the Amish. If you look at a photo of an Amish man and a Jew with black attire and broad-brimmed hat, it’s hard to tell the difference. In fact, I’ve been asked if I can speak Hebrew. I say, “No, I’m not Jewish, I’m Amish.”
Malinda and I dug deeper into the Word. We love the New Testament church! We had so many questions: “Why don’t we have those (New Testament) experiences? Why doesn’t anyone speak in tongues?” No one would answer my questions.
Most Amish in our community think you cannot know if you are going to go to heaven or not. This, I believe, testifies to the fact that the Amish, like the Jews, are very legalistic, Old Covenant-minded. They confess Jesus, yet believe in a works-based salvation. It’s very confusing. They don’t grasp the most exciting part of the Gospel, that Jesus paid the price for our atonement through our faith in Him!
Growing up we didn’t get much information about baptism. We had both been sprinkled as youth. I used to wonder why we didn’t practice baptism by immersion like they did in the New Testament, and then one of Malinda’s relatives gave her a book that explained what baptism meant in the original language. We learned that immersion is the biblical method for baptism. We studied Romans 6, which says we are “buried with Christ” through baptism. When you get buried in the watery grave, it’s like your old man is being buried. You are a new person. We discovered immersion is the most common form of baptism, especially in persecuted countries.
Our problem was this: how do you get baptized by immersion in the Amish church? They don’t allow baptism by immersion. It was not in our tradition. I presented our desire to the ministry, and it didn’t go well. They wouldn’t do it. They told us we were being discontent and that we would be excommunicated and condemned by our families if we were baptized by immersion.
This brought us to the hardest decision in our 33 years of life: obeying God or man. We were both part of closely knit families. The prospect of being cut off from them was more than disheartening. And yet we felt we needed to submit to God in everything He asked us to do.
In desperation, I cried out to God for a word of confirmation. A day or two later, a car drove up to our house. Inside was a lady I barely knew. Her cheeks were tear-stained.
I asked, “Why are you here?”
She said, “The Holy Spirit sent me.” She related that for a week, the Holy Spirit had been giving her a heavy burden to pray for us.
“Was there any earthly reason for that?” I asked.
She said there wasn’t and assured us that she knew nothing of our struggle.
“So you are not telling us to go back to the Amish way of thinking?” I asked.
“No, not at all.”
I thank the Lord for His confirmation. On June 16, 2020, Malinda and I were baptized by Mark Smith in Crystal Lake, Iowa. It was a wonderful experience coming up out of the water, knowing we had done what God wanted us to do. I encourage everyone to follow Christ through baptism. It’s so much simpler than other things God asks us to do, such as always thinking pure thoughts.
It was so simple, but it cost us so dearly.
When our church found out we had been baptized by immersion, they placed us in the ban. We were condemned. It was hard. We had just been baptized; we didn’t want to lose our family or our church. Before this time we were close to our families. Now our brothers and sisters think we have gone off a cliff, that we are crazy. Malinda’s family members in Wisconsin think we left our faith. Her mother sent her a letter telling her she was no longer welcome in their home. We are not welcome to attend funerals or weddings, even for our family members.
We became outcasts. We were kicked out of our church. People in our Amish community can’t have business dealings with us. Almost all our Amish acquaintances condemn us and gossip about us. Our younger siblings, even though more open to us, are not allowed to talk to us. I don’t want to cause any more trouble, so I don’t attempt to talk with them. I recently drove by an Amish farm auction, and everyone stared at me like I was going to hell.
We are still hurting. But we are so thankful for our family at First Church of the Open Bible in Clear Lake, Iowa, especially Pastors Will and Joyce Hunsaker and Associate Pastor Adam and Katie Henaman, who give us advice on how to walk with the Lord. We took Jesus at His word when He told us that we are to “go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” This simple act of obedience has cost us dearly, but it has been worth the cost.
Watch David and Malinda give their testimony below.
About the Author
David and Malinda Borntreger live in Northwood, Iowa, and attend First Church of the Open Bible in Clear Lake, Iowa. David is self-employed and spends much of his time raising goats and growing vegetables. The Borntregers have nine children.
Click Here to watch David and Malinda share their testimony.
I wonder what happened on all the August 5ths throughout my life. I experienced forty-seven of them as an innocuous number on the calendars of my life: unremarkable, ordinary, plain. I breezed past them without a thought and left them behind without a thought, too.
I will never forget my forty-eighth August 5th. For the rest of my (hopefully) long life, every 5th day of August will be marked in red and circled with a thick highlighter of remembrance. That is the date my husband Josh and I received the phone call that every parent dreads – the kind you read about in someone else’s story and pray never crosses into your own.
But on August 5, 2025, it did.
Fear is many things at once: a glacial wash that starts on your head and drains to your immobilized feet, a taste in your mouth and a sound in your ears, and a fist that strangles your throat.
We were on top of a mountain in Idaho during a church staff retreat when the Life360 app on my phone — an app our family uses to share locations and receive crash or emergency notifications — suddenly and jarringly blared a warning, alerting me that our middle daughter, Adelaide, was involved in a critical incident.
I cannot explain the cold fear that washed over me in that moment. That kind of fear is many things at once: a glacial wash that starts on your head and drains to your immobilized feet, a taste in your mouth and a sound in your ears, and a fist that strangles your throat.
Many frantic minutes later, a deputy called us to let us know that our daughter was involved in a serious car accident and was not doing well. We continued to learn, as we scrambled off the mountain, that she was being life-flighted to the hospital…and that was all we knew.
For nearly two hours.
Fear does another thing: it slows time down to a minuscule crawl that leaves you weeping, screaming, and shaking your fist at the world as you drive at “safe” speeds to where your daughter lies in an unknown state without you.
I will spare the reader from those moments of agony: the prayers that dripped onto my lap, the pleading and begging, brokenness too intimate for anyone but my Father to understand.
I put on the full armor of God in a way I never understood before and will never misunderstand again.
One of the sweetest moments of my existence is the moment I first saw my daughter’s beautiful face as she lay on the emergency room’s gurney, smeared in blood but oh-so alive. Her voice asking if anyone else was hurt, her precious feet sticking out from the blanket, and her fingers curled in mine. The fifth of August will always hold that breathtaking image in my heart.
Adelaide sustained many traumatic injuries from her accident. For that entire first night in the ICU, I was bent over her in prayer, overwhelmed with both terror and joy, each one warring against the other and trying to take control. I battled in prayer for my girl that night, refusing to back down and contending with ferocity. I put on the full armor of God in a way I never understood before and will never misunderstand again.
I kept repeating the 8th and 9th verses of Isaiah 58, sometimes whispering them, sometimes sobbing them, but always experiencing them. There are promises in the Word that you no longer just read but experience; there is a knowing that changes your entire world.
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: ‘Here am I’ (NIV).
I called out to Jesus, and He didn’t have to run to answer because He was already there, holding not just me in His arms, but Addy as well.
As I called out to Him, He kept saying, “Here am I.” He continued repeating those words, never growing weary of saying them to me— it was His liturgy over me.
“Here am I.”
“Here am I.”
“Here am I.”
I could hear His love, see His protection, and feel His Presence.
The healing He provided was as stunning as the first break of dawn, filling my feeble world with light. Adelaide’s lacerated lungs were miraculously sealed the next morning. Doctors came into her ICU room and were stunned to see my sweet girl smiling back at them, her healing defying the accident she endured. Today, she wears her testimony on her leg in the form of a gnarly scar, and it is proof of the Lord’s providence and healing that she loves to share with others. He guarded Adelaide on every side, and His purpose went before her. The glory of the Lord was her rearguard, and for that, this momma will never stop praising Him.
Every August 5th and each day that He gives.
*To read more from Melissa and what God has taught her through this event, read her related article: Five Things I Didn’t Know I Needed to Learn About Prayer.
About the Author
Melissa Stelly serves as the executive pastor at Turning Point Church in Spokane, Washington, alongside her husband, Josh Stelly. She has attended Turning Point for thirty-four years. She is the mother of three daughters, adores camping, hiking, and adventuring, is a voracious reader, and considers Mt. Rainier one of the greatest accomplishments the Lord created. Most days in her free time you will find her curled up with a good book or taking a long walk.
“Babe, I think we need to steal Christmas.” I said this to my wife, Kelley, as we were driving back from a family celebration. Without any further explanation, she knew I meant that the atmosphere of our family gatherings had left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t that they were bad; in fact, they were fun and filled with love, but we both sensed that commercialism had taken over and God wanted more for us; He was highlighting these family gatherings as spaces where He wanted to be on display.
I continued processing with Kelley: “…On second thought, changing Christmas might be too much for our families to handle, but I think we could probably take over next year’s Thanksgiving celebration. If we start planting the seeds now, then in ten years no one will notice that little by little we’ve taken over planning the big gatherings—until Christmas is just handed to us!”
… it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family.
Kelley looked at me skeptically. Okay, so maybe my plan to steal Christmas was a little ambitious and made me sound like a Pixar villain, but it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family. We brainstormed, we got excited, and Kelley helped wrangle us under God’s wisdom. As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
First, the table needed to be extended, both literally and metaphorically. We wanted to combine both sides of our family under one roof (can you say high risk?). Everyone was welcome, and we made sure to personally invite those without family or community. Kelley and I are part of a ministry that focuses on underserved neighborhoods in Toledo, Ohio. There is no shortage of people here who need to be connected to God’s love and see His family in action on days that remind them of trauma, hardship, and pain (including holidays).
Second, old traditions had to die for new ones to be born. Bye-bye, TV trays and football games; hello, giant thankfulness tree. Transparently, it was at this point that I was a little concerned; we were taking on generations of tradition, and I still wasn’t sure how to put God on display like He wanted to be. That was when He showed us the big one: The Food. Goodbye, turkey, mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole.
A new tradition was born. Instead of the traditional Thanksgiving meal, we picked a foreign culture and tried our hand at making their traditional dishes, desserts, and drinks. We adopted their games, played their music, and decorated our home with their colors. It was a huge risk, and it was a hit!
As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
After several years of these reinvented Thanksgivings, both our family and neighbors are fully on board. Each year, everyone at the table votes on the next cultural cuisine, and now, eight years in, Thanksgiving has become a highlight tradition. People dress up, experiment with exotic dishes, invite friends, and—most importantly—shower one another with love. Some years the gathering has grown so large we’ve even had to find a new venue.
Our “thankfulness tree,” built by Kelley, has become the centerpiece of the gathering. Each person writes down what they’re grateful for, shares it, and adds their leaf. And year after year we’ve saved them, creating a beautiful archive of gratitude. Neighbors without family have joined us too, finding a place to share thanks, receive prayer, and encounter God’s love through new traditions. Along the way, we’ve cooked some unforgettable meals, and one of my favorite moments has been watching people set aside hesitation to try something new when the familiar comforts aren’t on the table. That kind of openness has sparked amazing conversations about God, suffering, love, and family.
God has been on full display, His table extended, His traditions for us established, and His love something I am truly thankful for.
(Oh, and did we just so happen to host Christmas at our house last year? You betcha.)
About the Author
Corey Bern resides in the often overlooked rustbelt city of Toledo, Ohio, where he savors beautiful moments with his daughter, Liberty, and beautiful wife, Kelley. Corey serves as associate pastor of Washington Church as well as director of The Lewis House, an inner-city ministry that partners with Open Bible Churches. When he isn’t walking alongside others on their journey to the Father’s heart, he’s often hidden away in the world’s coolest under-the-stairs office with a good book—or helping Liberty baptize Barbies.
“Your father’s kidney is no longer functioning in your body, but twenty-one years is a good run. You need to start dialysis.”
That wasn’t the deal I had made with the Lord. When I received my kidney transplant from my dad, he was the perfect match. I was fourteen years old and had been sick for too long; I wanted to be a normal kid. I had been born with kidney disease, and doctors had no hope for me. They had transferred that hopelessness to my parents. My dad reminds me all the time how he questioned God: “Was it my sins or my wife’s sins that brought on this disease?”
God clearly answered him the way Jesus replied in John 9:3: “It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.” I found it interesting that the one who asked (my dad) was the one who gave. His gift of a kidney lasted twenty-one years, which was a miracle in itself. The average kidney transplant lasts twelve to fifteen years. While twenty-one years was a miracle, I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
On February 17, 2022, I sat in a dialysis chair for the first time in twenty-one years, overwhelmed by fear of what lay ahead. A doctor and social worker assured me their goal was to get me a new kidney quickly. Their confidence comforted me; I believed God had placed me in a facility where things would move smoothly and quickly.
After nine months of hearing nothing, a new social worker finally told me I was on the UCSF transplant list. I’ll never forget it—my husband said it was the best wedding anniversary gift. We were thrilled, believing we were one step closer to a new kidney. But on December 30, everything changed. The social worker told me I was not on the list after all and needed to call UCSF to check on my application status.
I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
What had felt like a glimmer of hope was gone in just a few weeks, and I was crushed. On January 3, 2023, I called UCSF, and the woman who answered was kind and encouraging, saying, “Let’s make sure we get you a kidney. You’re too young to be going through this.”
I met with doctors, nurses, and the transplant team over Zoom to assess if I was mentally and physically ready for a transplant. They informed me the wait for a kidney could be five to nine years, and when the meeting was over, I still had no assurance of a place on the transplant list. With that news, my strength started to wear thin, but I kept praying, trusting that somehow God would help me through whatever lay ahead.
In His strength, I returned to teaching with a smile, determined to make the most of the next five to nine years as I poured into my second graders and their future. As the worship pastor at Life Church in Concord, California, I encouraged others not to lose confidence in God, even when things felt out of control.
In June 2023, I attended the Open Bible National Convention in Texas on the very days I normally had dialysis. I went against medical advice, not realizing how much God had in store. The conference began on Tuesday, and I felt unusually tired and heavy-hearted. I wondered, “What if this is it? What if the deal I made with God was to keep going for the next five to nine years, and then He would take me home?”
That night, I shared those thoughts with my husband. I wasn’t giving up, I was simply accepting what I thought was God’s plan. I reminded him that despite all our prayers, my mom and his mom had both gone home to be with Jesus. I was learning that life is precious, but we don’t always get the answer we hope for. Still, I wasn’t defeated; I was fighting my way forward, bearing the bruises and scars of a warrior.
The next morning, a group of women prayed over me, asking God to release a miracle and heal me from needing dialysis. Their prayer stirred my spirit, though my body still felt weary. That night during worship as “Firm Foundation” played, tears streamed down my face. My spirit believed God wouldn’t fail, but my body felt the weight of exhaustion and the marks of treatment.
I heard God say clearly, … “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
After the service, I saw Tirsa, a missionary from Nicaragua who had visited our church when I was young. She knew my mom, and that connection meant everything. She prayed boldly for a miracle, that I would no longer need dialysis. I felt in my spirit that I needed to be prayed for by Angie Sissel, one of my spiritual mothers. As I waited for her, my eyes kept being drawn to the green circle in that year’s conference theme. I heard God say clearly, “I’m hitting the reset button.” I asked if He meant my kidneys, but He simply repeated, “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
When “Momma Angie” prayed over me, her husband, Pastor Derek Sissel, shared a word from the Lord. He looked me in the eyes and said, “God’s not done with you. There’s still fire inside you. Stop thinking He’s finished.” Tears ran down my face. He had no way of knowing what I’d said in private the night before, but God had heard me. I called my husband that night and told him everything.
Thursday brought a surprise. During our free time, my husband told me to answer the unknown number that had been calling because it might be the hospital. When I finally answered, it was the transplant team. They told me a kidney might be available the next day. I explained I was in Texas, but they said it was fine, I was second in line. If the person ahead of me wasn’t a match, the kidney would be mine.
All day, I kept my phone close. During the Convention’s evening reception, they called again, not to confirm the kidney yet, but to make sure I was still reachable. I stayed on edge, waiting.
Friday morning, we flew home. As soon as we landed and were driving home, the call came: “Mrs. Wolfe? The kidney is yours. Please be at the hospital by 4:30 p.m. for your final dialysis treatment, then head to UCSF.”
I jumped up and down in my seat, telling everyone in the van, “My kidney is on its way!” I called my husband, and he told his boss, “I need to go get my wife; she’s getting her kidney today!”
On June 17, 2023, I received my transplant—a gift I know came straight from the Lord. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to question the fact that it came from someone who had passed. I later learned it came from a young person. I know their family must have experienced immense pain, but I am deeply grateful. Because of their generosity, I have life again. I can teach, lead worship, and now preach.
After I returned home and began recovering, I received a letter from UCSF. It said I had been placed on the transplant list as of June 6, 2023, just ten days prior to the phone call that informed me I’d been given a kidney. Ten days. After losing nearly a year and a half of my life, God needed only ten days to give me a kidney. It reminded me—He’s not done with me. It was my mom’s time to go home and my mother-in-law’s too. But not mine.
Now, whenever an opportunity comes, I say yes. God gave me life—again—so He can fulfill His promises and purpose through me. If He isn’t done with my story, I know He’s not done with yours. Pray, lean in, surrender the outcome, and He will surprise you! He’s not done.
Mary Lou Wolfe is a worship pastor, preaching team lead, and second grade teacher at Life Church in Concord, California. She has been married to her husband, Chris, for twelve years and their goldendoodle, Brock, is almost two years old. She was born and raised in the Bay Area. Her dad, Ricardo, is from El Salvador and her mom, Jenny, was from Nicaragua. At the age of nine, Mary Lou and her parents moved to a Hispanic Church in Antioch, California. Templo Santo was her home church and sent her to Eugene Bible College, where she graduated in 2009. Since then, she has been in ministry, never losing her heritage and always having a heart for her people. She speaks, writes, and reads in Spanish. She is grateful that her parents taught her to hold tight to her heritage, never forgetting where she came from or where God is taking her.
