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He’s Not Done
“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.
Isaac dug out again the wells that were dug during the lifetime of his father Abraham. The Philistines had closed them up after Abraham’s death. Isaac gave them the same names his father had given them. Isaac’s servants dug wells in the valley and found a well there with fresh water. (Genesis 26:18-19 CEB).
I came to faith as a teenager and had very few church experiences up to that point. My earliest formation as a Christ follower took place within Open Bible church settings, where I found deep community and meaningful spiritual experiences that I continue to value. At the same time, as in many modern evangelical churches, there was limited exposure to the ancient liturgies and historic practices of the wider Church.
These traditional cornerstones that were foundational to ecclesial life for millennia had been almost eliminated in the churches I attended. It seemed to me that these practices were at best met with ignorance and at worst with grave suspicion. The predictable result was that any real understanding and appreciation for ancient liturgical practices was absent from the first two decades of my church life. I rarely thought about things like Ash Wednesday services, the Book of Common Prayer, and Advent, and if I did, it was with a healthy side dish of uninformed judgment. I viewed Lent the same way I viewed lentils: it was a cold and exotic experience that was both frightening to prepare and painful to consume.
I viewed Lent the same way I viewed lentils: it was a cold and exotic experience that was both frightening to prepare and painful to consume.
This was my context as a few of our church staff began asking whether we could introduce some of these ancient practices into our church worship experience. As you might imagine given my church background, it took me a while to warm up to the idea. I began a process of asking questions, listening, and learning, even reaching out to an Anglican priest friend to hear his take on the value of these long-held traditions. Through all this, Christ in His goodness and patience has allowed us now to incorporate many of these practices into our regular church experience. As a result, I am happy to report that we are experiencing wonderful depth and meaning in our gatherings as we’ve adopted and applied some of these long-proven elements of discipleship.
Our time of worship now always includes the public reading of a Psalm (a practice we have adopted from the Book of Common Prayer) to bring us back to the ancient hymn book of Israel. We have a fresh understanding of what it is to give up something physical in order to gain something spiritual as we fast in the forty days of Lent. Christmas time and the lighting of Advent candles help us celebrate Christ’s first arrival while reminding us to await His second arrival. And Ash Wednesday, with its outward sign of repentance and mortality, leads us to humble ourselves before God, understanding how desperately we need His saving grace. Finally, the celebration of life on Easter Sunday has far greater meaning now because it is preceded by the sobriety of the death we remember on Good Friday.
This is not to say that incorporating these elements has always been smooth. We’ve learned to introduce them slowly and with great attention to the “why” behind the “what.” Along the way, we’ve had our share of growth opportunities and mishaps. One example happened early on in our journey, when we tried to introduce some ancient call and response types of prayers. The practice led several people to worry that we had become a completely different kind of church. We haven’t yet reintroduced those prayers in our services.
We have found that moving slowly and consistently, explaining the meaning of the practices, and laughing at ourselves through our failed attempts have been the key ingredients to discovering the power of these ancient gifts.
Another example took place during last year’s Ash Wednesday service. During this type of service, ash is used to mark the sign of a cross on each believer’s forehead. This marking symbolizes our own mortality and repentance, as we take up our cross and turn from our sins. Well, our beloved worship leader wanted to add scent to the ashes to create a fuller sensory experience. To do so, he incorporated essential oils, including cinnamon, into the ashes. Little did any of us know that undiluted cinnamon oil burns on the skin. Talk about your full sensory experience. All of us in the service sat wondering what it reveals about our spiritual condition if the ash cross on our forehead feels like it’s on fire. There was a great sigh of relief when our executive pastor let people know what had happened, and a mad dash to the bathrooms ensued as people quickly washed away the painful marker. The next Sunday I formally apologized for turning their Ash Wednesday into a Rash Wednesday.
In these moments and more, we have found that moving slowly and consistently, explaining the meaning of the practices, and laughing at ourselves through our failed attempts have been the key ingredients to discovering the power of these ancient gifts. Just as Isaac reopened the ancient wells of his father to discover pure water, we too can rediscover the meaning of these ancient practices in our churches and experience their fresh water again.
About the Author
Aaron Sutherland is the founding pastor of Cove Church in Eugene, Oregon, and the Director of Multiplication for Pacific Region Open Bible. Along with his wife, Paula, he finds great joy in watching God reveal the new stories being written into the lives of people from every corner of the world.
Y volvió a abrir Isaac los pozos de agua que habían abierto en los días de Abraham su padre, y que los filisteos habían cegado después de la muerte de Abraham; y los llamó por los nombres que su padre los había llamado. Pero cuando los siervos de Isaac cavaron en el valle, y hallaron allí un pozo de aguas vivas. (Génesis 26:18-19, RVR-1960).
Me convertí al cristianismo en la adolescencia y, hasta ese momento, había tenido muy pocas experiencias en la iglesia. Mi formación inicial como seguidor de Cristo tuvo lugar en la iglesia de la Biblia Abierta, donde encontré una comunidad profunda y experiencias espirituales significativas que sigo valorando. Al mismo tiempo, como en muchas iglesias evangélicas modernas, el contacto con las antiguas liturgias y prácticas de la Iglesia en general era limitado.
Estos pilares tradicionales, que durante milenios habían sido fundamentales para la vida de la Iglesia, habían sido prácticamente eliminados de las iglesias a las que asistía. Me parecía que, en el mejor de los casos, estas prácticas se ignoraban y, en el peor, se miraban con gran recelo. El resultado previsible fue que, durante las dos primeras décadas de mi vida eclesiástica, no llegué a conocer ni a apreciar realmente estas antiguas prácticas litúrgicas. Rara vez pensaba en cosas como los servicios del Miércoles de Ceniza, el Libro de Oración Común y el Adviento, y, si lo hacía, era con una buena dosis de prejuicios. Veía la Cuaresma de la misma manera que veía las lentejas: una experiencia fría y exótica que daba miedo preparar y era dolorosa de consumir.
Veía la Cuaresma de la misma manera que veía las lentejas: una experiencia fría y exótica que daba miedo preparar y era dolorosa de consumir.
Este era mi contexto cuando algunos miembros del personal de nuestra iglesia comenzaron a preguntar si podríamos incorporar algunas de estas prácticas antiguas en nuestra experiencia de adoración en la iglesia. Como se pueden imaginar, dada mi formación eclesiástica, me llevó un tiempo aceptar la idea. Empecé a hacer preguntas, a escuchar y a aprender. Incluso me puse en contacto con un amigo sacerdote anglicano para conocer su opinión sobre el valor de estas tradiciones tan arraigadas. A través de todo esto, Cristo, en su bondad y paciencia, nos ha permitido ahora incorporar muchas de estas prácticas en nuestra experiencia eclesiástica habitual. Me complace informar de que nuestras reuniones tienen ahora una profundidad y un significado maravillosos en nuestras reuniones, ya que hemos adoptado y aplicado algunos de estos elementos del discipulado que han demostrado su eficacia con el paso del tiempo.
Ahora, nuestro tiempo de adoración siempre incluye la lectura pública de un salmo (una práctica que hemos adoptado del Libro de Oración Común) que nos transporta al antiguo himnario de Israel. Tenemos una nueva comprensión de lo que significa renunciar a algo material o para ganar algo espiritual mientras ayunamos durante los cuarenta días de Cuaresma. La época navideña y la ceremonia de encender las velas de Adviento nos ayudan a celebrar la primera Venida de Cristo, y a recordar que debemos esperar su segunda venida. Y el Miércoles de Ceniza, con su signo externo de arrepentimiento y mortalidad, nos invita a humillarnos ante Dios, y a reconocer cuán desesperadamente necesitamos su gracia salvadora. Por último, la celebración de la vida el Domingo de Pascua tiene ahora un significado mucho mayor, ya que va precedida de la sobriedad de la muerte que recordamos el Viernes Santo.
Esto no quiere decir que la incorporación de estos elementos siempre haya sido fácil. Hemos aprendido a introducirlos poco a poco, prestando mucha atención al «porqué» detrás del «qué». A lo largo del camino, hemos tenido nuestras oportunidades de crecimiento y nuestros contratiempos. Un ejemplo ocurrió al principio de nuestro camino, cuando intentamos introducir algunas oraciones antiguas de llamada y respuesta. La práctica llevó a varias personas a preocuparse de que nos hubiéramos convertido en un tipo de iglesia completamente diferente. Todavía no hemos reintroducido esas oraciones en nuestros servicios.
Hemos descubierto que movernos lenta y consistentemente, explicar el significado de las prácticas y reírnos de nosotros mismos a través de nuestros intentos fallidos han sido los ingredientes clave para descubrir el poder de estos antiguos dones.
Otro ejemplo ocurrió durante el servicio del Miércoles de Ceniza del año pasado. En este tipo de servicio, se utiliza ceniza para trazar una cruz en la frente de cada creyente. Esta marca simboliza nuestra propia mortalidad y arrepentimiento, y representa el momento en que tomamos nuestra cruz y nos apartamos de nuestros pecados. Bueno, nuestro querido líder de adoración quiso añadir aroma a las cenizas para crear una experiencia sensorial más completa. Para ello, añadió aceites esenciales, entre ellos canela, a las cenizas. Ninguno de nosotros sabía que el aceite de canela sin diluir quema la piel. Hablando de una experiencia sensorial completa… Todos los que estábamos en el servicio nos sentamos preguntándonos qué revelaba acerca de nuestra condición espiritual el hecho de que la cruz de ceniza de nuestra frente pareciera estar ardiendo. Hubo un gran suspiro de alivio cuando nuestro pastor ejecutivo informó a la gente de lo que había sucedido, y se produjo una carrera loca hacia los baños para lavarse rápidamente la dolorosa marca. Al domingo siguiente me disculpé formalmente por haber convertido su Miércoles de Ceniza en un Miércoles de Erupción.
En este y en otros momentos, hemos descubierto que avanzar lentamente y con constancia, explicar el significado de las prácticas y reírnos de nosotros mismos ante nuestros intentos fallidos han sido los ingredientes clave para descubrir el poder de estos antiguos legados. Al igual que Isaac reabrió los antiguos pozos de su padre para encontrar agua pura, nosotros también podemos redescubrir el significado de estas antiguas prácticas en nuestras iglesias y volver a experimentar su agua fresca
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Sobre el autor
Aaron Sutherland es el pastor fundador de la iglesia Cove Church en Eugene, Oregón, y director de Multiplicación de la región del Pacífico de la Biblia Abierta. Junto con su esposa, Paula, disfruta ver cómo Dios escribe nuevas historias en la vida de personas de todo el mundo.
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.
