I’ve walked through some dark valleys in my 70-plus years. But if you asked me to compare which was harder—my fourteen years in an orphanage or watching my son fight leukemia for 40 brutal months—I honestly couldn’t tell you. They’re both in a category all their own.
But here’s what I can tell you: those 40 months taught me things about faith, perseverance, and what it means to trust God when you can’t see Him, hear Him, or feel Him. And if you’re in your own valley of darkness right now, I hope that these lessons will help light your path.
The Man Who Couldn’t Fix It
I’m the kind of man who wants to fix things. It’s in my DNA. You bring me a problem, I want to solve it.
But when your 20-year-old son has leukemia, there’s nothing to fix.
They put Luke on a 40-month chemotherapy program that was absolutely brutal. His cancer was adaptive, so they kept changing his drugs. They’d go into his spine with this great big needle—I was there almost every time because I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. Often this time, at home, he would curl up in a fetal position, fighting constant nausea and migraines so severe we’d have to hospitalize him just to get them under control.
And all I wanted to do was grab that cancer, drag it out into the woods, and beat it until it screamed for mercy. I wanted to hurt it. Destroy it. And fix my son’s pain.
But there was nothing to grab. Nothing to beat. Nothing to fix.
That’s a special kind of helplessness that will bring a father to his knees.
Walking Through the Valley of Shadows
You know that verse in Psalm 23? “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”
Most people focus on the promise at the end: that God is with us. And that’s true and it’s beautiful. But what struck me during those 40 months was the beginning: “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”
There are many valleys of shadows in people’s lives. Death is just one of them. But for more than 30 of those 40 months, we genuinely did not know if our son would live or die. A young man in his twenties, with immense faith, with his whole life ahead of him… and we didn’t know if he’d have a future.
The day before they started treatment, Luke said a simple prayer: “God, I’ve trusted you with my living, but if I’m going to die, help me trust you with my dying. Either way, Lord, praise be the name of the Lord.”
Twenty years old, and he had more faith than I did in that moment.
When You Can’t See, Hear, or Feel God
I’ll never forget one particular night. I was taking sleep medication just to try to get a few hours of rest, and even that wasn’t working. I was literally lying face-down on the floor of our family room, praying through tears.
“God, I know you’re there, but I can’t see you. I can’t hear you. I can’t feel you. That verse says even in the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me—but I can’t see you. And I can’t feel you. And I can’t hear you. Help me have faith that you’re still there.”
That’s what walking in faith really means. It’s not believing when you can see God working, when you can feel His presence, when you hear His voice loud and clear. Walking in faith is trusting Him when you can’t see, hear, or feel a single thing.
For 30 months, we walked in that kind of faith. Not knowing. Not seeing. Not feeling. Just trusting.
And I won’t lie to you—it was hard. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Love Shows Up
Here’s something beautiful that emerged from that darkness: we learned what it really means to show up for someone you love.
My wife, who’s an ordained minister, took care of Luke two days a week. I took care of him two days a week. And our daughter, Alicia—whose husband was in law school at the time—took care of her brother three days a week.
They’ve always had a close relationship, but watching them during that time showed me something about love that you just can’t hire.
I came home early one afternoon, and the TV was on—they always played comedies because everything else was too heavy, too serious. I walked down the hall toward the master bedroom and just kind of glanced in.
Luke and Alicia were laying on top of the bed together, some stupid comedy playing in the background. And they were curled up together, both of them sound asleep. Luke was at such peace, held by his sister, that he could finally rest.
I walked to another part of the house and wept.
That’s the power of family. That’s the importance of showing up when everything is falling apart and saying, “I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”
The Side Effects and the Victory
Luke beat cancer 12 years ago. But the victory came with a cost.
The steroids they used destroyed both his shoulders. He has two artificial shoulders and an artificial hip. They thought he’d need two artificial hips. He still struggles with constant migraines and persistent discomfort.
Three artificial joints at his age. Ongoing migraines. Permanent side effects from the treatment that saved his life.
But here’s what else he is: a fabulous preacher. A man of deep, tested faith. A husband and father. A living testimony that God is faithful even when the valley seems endless.
That’s what matters. Not that the road was hard. Not that the valley was dark. But that we walked through it together, and God was faithful through every step.
What I Learned in the Valley
If you’re in your own valley right now—whether it’s a health crisis, a financial disaster, a relationship that’s falling apart, or something else that’s brought you to your knees—here’s what I learned:
You don’t have to fix everything. Sometimes your job is just to show up. To be present. To be the shoulder someone can lean on. To sit with them in the darkness. That’s enough.
Faith isn’t a feeling. It’s a choice you make when you can’t see, hear, or feel God working. It’s lying face-down on the floor and saying, “Help me believe you’re still there.”
The valley doesn’t last forever. Psalm 23 says we walk through the valley, not into the valley to stay there. You’re moving through it. Keep walking.
Grace meets us in the mess. We don’t have to be strong enough, faithful enough, or brave enough. We just have to keep showing up, and God meets us there.
Love shows up. When everything falls apart, the people who love you will curl up next to you and fall asleep holding you. That’s what love does.
Keep Walking
If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own valley of shadows, I want you to know: God sees you. And even when you can’t see Him, hear Him, or feel Him, He’s still there.
Keep walking. Keep showing up. Keep trusting even when it’s hard.
Because on the other side of the valley, there’s life. There’s testimony. There’s a story of faithfulness that will help someone else when they’re face-down on their own floor, wondering if God is still there.
He is. He was with me. He’ll be with you too.
Yea, though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, He is with you. Even when you can’t feel it. Even when it’s hard.
Keep walking. You are not alone.
