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I Didn’t Die!
By David Ridgway
It was a Friday, with just over a week until Christmas, when I realized I wasn’t feeling well. My wife, Rose, and I were planning to host a Christmas party for her side of the family that evening. Not wanting to expose anyone to COVID, she suggested I get tested at a nearby place that offered free testing. I received negative results about forty minutes later, so I assumed I just had a cold or the flu. I stayed up in our bedroom that night so as not to expose anyone to whatever it was. (It turned out it was COVID, and six people got it. Thankfully none were seriously ill, and they all recovered).
Saturday I lay in bed all day coughing. Sunday I stayed home from church, and I never miss church. I own my own pest control business, and on Monday I had an important job to do that I felt couldn’t wait. I tried leaving the house, but I couldn’t walk ten or fifteen feet without gasping for air. Totally exhausted, I had to go back home. Rose immediately took me to the hospital, MercyOne West in West Des Moines, a suburb of Des Moines, Iowa. There I tested positive for COVID. I was told that I was dehydrated and my blood pressure had tanked. They gave me an IV and got my blood pressure back up in an acceptable range and early Tuesday morning sent me home, telling me to rest.
I kept getting worse. By Wednesday I was having difficulty breathing, so Rose took me back to the hospital and they admitted me. I was thinking, “I’m in the hospital. They will take care of me, and I will get better.”
Instead I went downhill fast. I was having trouble breathing even though they kept increasing my oxygen. I was up to 75 liters, but my blood stream was absorbing less and less. I was starting to lose consciousness, unaware of what was going on around me. Since Rose had also tested positive for COVID, she couldn’t visit me.
By Christmas I was in bad shape. My mother came to see me. At that point I was 99 percent sure I was going to die. In my mind I could see a passageway up in the corner, and I knew that was death’s door. I kept drifting closer and closer to that passageway. I knew that if I reached that passageway, I would be dead. I would pass from this life to the next.
I thought, “I can’t control this; I can’t stop this. I’m in my 50s and I still have a lot I want to do. I have a lot of responsibilities – my home, business, family, and church ministry. This is really happening.”
It was scary even though I know I’m saved and going to heaven. It reminded me of that song Mark Lowry sings, “Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven (But Nobody Wants to Die)”.
On Christmas the doctor called my wife and tried to prepare her. He said, “Dave has the worst kind of COVID. He has pneumonia and a respiratory infection with it. He has a rough road in front of him and probably won’t survive.” They decided to transfer me to the main hospital downtown in the middle of the night.
Even though the next morning was a Sunday, our church, Journey Church of the Open Bible in Urbandale, wasn’t holding service in order to give staff time off with their families for the holidays. Rose had been keeping our pastor, Darrick Young, apprised of my condition and he would alert the prayer team and other leaders. After receiving the alarming news of my condition Pastor Darrick called down to the hospital to see if he could visit me. Without hesitation they told him, “Yes, you should probably come.”
I remember hearing his voice and was aware he was praying for me, but I don’t remember much about the visit. He later told me that I was somewhat responsive and agreed with him in prayer.
When people in the church got word of my condition, several of them dropped what they were doing and gathered at the church to pray. Pastor Darrick called Rose at home, put her on speaker phone, and prayed with her. When she mentioned that my daughter Natalie, a nurse who happens to work at Mercy, was with me at the time, Darrick called Natalie’s phone. She put me on speaker, and I could hear people praying for me. I don’t remember it but was later told that I kept saying, “Hallelujah.” At that meeting they also organized a 24-hour prayer chain. I’m still amazed that people stopped what they were doing during a holiday and gathered to pray for me.
God blessed me with Dr. Wilcox, who I’ve been told is the best doctor for treating COVID. But the news he gave Rose Monday morning was not good. He said, “Dave is in a downward spiral. If we don’t get him on a ventilator in fifteen minutes, he has zero chance of survival. His organs will shut down.”
Rose said, “We have five kids. Can I have them call him before you do that?”
He answered, “Sure, have them call right away. I’ll have the nurse put it on speaker phone.”
I vaguely remember hearing their voices. I now realize they were telling me goodbye.
After that, they sedated me, paralyzed me, and put me on the ventilator. As horrible as my experience had been to that point, this is when the real nightmares began. I wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone. You’re in a drug-induced coma, but your mind is still active. I was given the most powerful mind-altering hallucinogens. It was horrible.
As soon as I heard the doctor say, “Let’s start it up,” geometric figures appeared all around me, moving and shifting shapes. It made me nauseous. Then creatures started to appear out of nowhere: rats and animals and horrible things, so many things I can’t describe. Thankfully my mind has erased a lot of it. It reminded me of the time in the Bible when Jesus was fasting for forty days and then Satan took Him up and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world.
It felt as if the Lord took me up and showed me the nations of the world and how evil, full of sin, and lost man is. I saw any and every kind of sin there is: lying, stealing, rape, murder, incest, and genocide. I saw all the evil and it was throughout every country in every nation of the world, even down to the animal kingdom. (You know how animals murder and prey on each other.) The evil had invaded even the earth itself. I saw mountains sinking down into the ocean because they were corrupt. I remembered that when Adam and Eve sinned, God cursed even the ground.
I saw a common thread, and it was greed. People will do so much evil for money. They will kill for money, propagate pornography, gamble, steal, and lie. I thought of the verse that says, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil” (1 Timothy 6:10, NLT).
When they put you on the ventilator, they place you in a prone position on your stomach for sixteen hours and then flip you onto your back for the other eight. It’s kind of a big deal when they flip you. It takes six to eight people. I had IVs, a blood pressure cuff, oxygen sensor, catheter, and all kinds of tubes and wires, and they had to make sure nothing got pulled or pinched or kinked. They don’t even want a wrinkle in the sheet because they don’t want to create pressure points that would cause bed sores.
My daughter Natalie would pop in from time to time before or after her shift to see how I was doing although I wasn’t aware of it. One morning she happened to come in while they were flipping me. She has seen the flipping process a hundred times before; she’s even helped with it. But when she saw them doing it to me, a limp, practically lifeless corpse, she couldn’t watch. She had to leave the room.
Pastor Darrick organized a gathering at my house Thursday evening for people to come to pray. Rose was at the house with our two younger kids who still live at home. Dozens of people from at least four churches joined together in corporate prayer at the house. I just saw the video of it this week. When I think of all the people praying for me, I’m overwhelmed.
That was Thursday night. Amazingly, the next morning, Friday, the doctor called Rose and said, “I think we’re going to take him off the ventilator because he’s making overall improvement.” (Originally they had told her I would be on the ventilator for seven to fourteen days; this was day five.) After they pulled me off the ventilator, I regained consciousness. It was still kind of scary because I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I was getting close to the edge!
On New Year’s Day, ten days after I was admitted to the hospital, Rose was able to come visit me. When they told me she was coming, I could not remember what she looked like. Then when she came in, she was wearing a gown, hair covering, and face mask so all I could see was her eyes. I still couldn’t think what she looked like! But when she spoke, it all came back.
During those dark days, when nurses would come in to take my vitals, I would reach for them because I was so lonely. I didn’t want to die alone. The nurses would hold my hand for a couple minutes and then have to leave, and I wouldn’t see them for hours. Time just seemed to come to a stop. Even after I got off the ventilator, drugs were still affecting my mind. If I closed my eyes the horrible hallucinations would come back, so I tried to keep myself awake for two days. If I even blinked, the hallucinations were right there. Eventually I started having hallucinations that, although strange, were not as bad.
Finally on day three after coming off the ventilator, the hallucinations were fading. I was feeling better, so they moved me to my own COVID room. A nurse asked me if I wanted an ice chip, and having not eaten or drunk for two weeks, it sounded so great. I had lost thirty pounds, mostly muscle. I was so weak. When I was under, I would dream of cold drinks and lemonade. And then when the nurse asked if I wanted a whole cup of water, I was overjoyed. It tasted like living water!
After giving me the water, the nurse leaned over and said, “David, I just have to tell you, you are the only person I’ve seen that was unvaccinated, that sick, and on the ventilator that long and lived.” (A lot of people don’t come off the ventilator; it’s considered a last-ditch effort.)
The doctor concurred with the nurse, saying, “You are a very, very rare case.”
He was shocked I survived. I think a lot of the doctors were surprised. I was surprised. They moved me to a regular room, and that’s when I realized, “I’m not going to die.”
Even though I was as weak as a kitten, I now had hope. I was able to eat some pudding, which I love! The next day they started bringing me three meals a day. These became the highlight of my day. I’ve already put on twenty of the thirty pounds I lost.
When I first got to my own room, I was so weak I couldn’t even sit up. I couldn’t even push the button to move my hospital bed, turn on the TV, or call the nurse. When they tried to help me sit up, all my oxygen alarms went off. By the next day they helped me to stand, and I walked across the room with a walker, even though I soon returned to bed, exhausted. The next day I walked down the hall. The doctor was telling me I would probably get out of the hospital by the weekend.
Reflecting on Dave’s experience, Darrick Young, his pastor, said, “The turnaround in Dave’s body from near death to life was nothing short of miraculous. Dave, Rose, and their entire family have been quick to give glory to God for Dave’s healing, and they have expressed incredible gratitude to those who stood with them in prayer. God healed Dave, but he touched our whole church.”
Pastor Darrick Young
On Thursday morning, he said, “Would you like to get out of here today?”
I assured him that I would love that! I did not want to spend another night in the hospital. The beds are not comfortable. I still had all the wires and tubes, and they would come around the clock and take blood six to eight times a day.
By 8:00 that night I was home, having spent eighteen days in the hospital. I was on oxygen at first, but after a week slowly weaned myself off. I rested and got stronger the second week. By the third week when Sunday came, I said, “I’m going to church.”
That was my first outing. And the next day I went back to work and ended up working several hours. I keep getting stronger and stronger. I thank God I’m alive. My brother-in-law calls me nearly every day and the first thing he says is, “Praise God, Dave; you’re alive.”
I couldn’t get over the fact that all those people were praying for me. There were probably thousands, even beyond Iowa. There really is power in prayer. God heard their prayers and answered them. I’ve had prayers that weren’t answered the way I thought they would be, but this strengthened my faith, knowing God hears our prayers. He might not answer the way we wish, but His ways are better than ours.
God must have something for me to do; He’s not done with me yet. At first I thought that I needed to do something great for God. But when I started back teaching Royal Rangers (an activity-based, small-group ministry for boys) again, I saw a dad of two of the boys who goes to a different church. He had not heard about my ordeal, so I told him about it, wondering aloud what God had for me to do. He was shocked and amazed by my story and later sent me an email.
Part of it said:
I have experienced God helping me connect with my family better at Rangers that carries over to a better connection during the week. You have been doing Rangers for so long it may seem routine or even a little repetitive. But let me assure you that God is working through you having an impact on us . . . . You will never know how thankful I am for those two hours on Sunday when I get to come hang out with you guys and my kids. . . . You may not see it, but the impact is profound.
The vision I had while on the ventilator showed me how lost this world is, how much work we Christians have to do. I know as we get closer to the return of the Lord that sin will abound, but we can do something about it if we remain faithful to what He has called us to do.
About the Author
David Ridgway is the owner of Midwest Pest Management. He and his wife, Rose, began attending Journey Church of the Open Bible in Urbandale, Iowa, soon after it began ten years ago. Dave serves as a Journey partner, elder, and volunteer in various areas. He has been a Royal Rangers leader for 23 years and serves on the district staff. He has served as the Outpost Coordinator for Outpost 101 since it was formed at Journey Church nine years ago.
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.
