Kerry Goode

ALS warrior, NFL coach& player, author, husband, advocate for ALS patients, believer, motivational speaker.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

https://t.co/ckiJpJjRxX #beatALS #goodefoundation #Goodestrong #kerrygoode

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Letting Go, Holding On

There comes a moment when God asks us to release something we’ve held onto so tightly that it feels like part of our identity. It might be a dream, a role, a possession, or even a version of ourselves that existed before life changed. Letting go isn’t weakness—it’s worship. It’s saying, “Lord, I trust You more than I trust what I’ve lost.”

When we surrender what we can no longer carry, we make room for grace to carry us. The ache of release is real, but so is the promise that follows. God never removes something without preparing something greater to fill the space. The same hands that allowed the goodbye are already shaping the next hello.

Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t the loss itself—it’s watching what once represented freedom fade into memory. Yet even in that moment, God whispers, “You are still mine. You are still moving forward.” The strength that once turned steering wheels now turns hearts toward hope.

Letting go doesn’t erase the story; it refines it. Every dent, every tear, every goodbye becomes part of the testimony that says, “I made it through.” And when we look back, we’ll see that what felt like the end was really the beginning of a deeper journey—one driven not by horsepower, but by faith power.

So if you’re standing in your own driveway of loss today, watching something precious fade from view, remember this: God’s grace doesn’t ride away—it stays parked right beside you.

Scripture:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5‑6

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Goodbye, Pearl

My heart is still somewhere out in that driveway, laid out flat like it just got the Holy Ghost and passed clean out.

Today, I had to say goodbye to Pearl.

Now Pearl wasn’t just an SUV. Pearl was my last rolling piece of freedom. She was my pre-ALS independence sitting on four tires. She was my “I’ll be right back” machine. My “let me run to the store” chariot. My “I don’t need nobody to take me nowhere” declaration with leather seats and a clean paint job.

And today… she left me on the back of a tow truck like she was being taken to glory.

That hurt.

The last time I sat behind Pearl’s steering wheel, ALS made something painfully clear. I was sitting at a red light, needing to make a simple right turn. Simple for everybody else. But my arms said, “Oh no, we don’t do that anymore.”

Cars behind me started blowing their horns like they were in the Indy 500 and I was holding up qualifying. I’m sitting there sweating, praying, negotiating with my limbs like, “C’mon y’all, just one more turn. ONE.”

I wanted to yell, “Y’all better be glad I can’t get out this truck!”

But truth was, I was scared.

For the first time in my life, I knew I was not safe behind that wheel. Somehow, I used my legs to help force that turn, then drove home with fear sitting in the passenger seat. When I pulled into the driveway and climbed down out of Pearl, I knew.

That was it.

I dragged myself into the house and told Tanja my heart was broken. I wasn’t just giving up driving. I was giving up another piece of the man I used to be.

So Pearl sat in the driveway for ten years, looking like a museum exhibit titled, “Before ALS Had the Nerve.”

My girls used her sparingly—very sparingly after Sydney forgot to stop at a stop sign and introduced Pearl’s front bumper to somebody else’s rear end. After that, Pearl went into semi-retirement.

Family members would ask, “Can I borrow the truck?”

And I’d be sitting there thinking, “Borrow? That’s Pearl. That’s not a truck. That’s family.”

But Pearl started coming back with scratches nobody knew about, “Not me.” “Wasn’t there before.” “I don’t remember.”

And don’t get me started on the gas tank. I’d hand her over full, she’d come back thirstier than a man in the desert.

Apparently, Pearl had been traveling with witnesses who all suffered from sudden memory loss.

So today… I kissed her goodbye. Literally. Leaned in, pressed my forehead to hers, and whispered, “Thank you.” Watching her get winched up onto that tow truck felt like watching my past drive away without even turning around to wave.

And when that tow truck pulled away, I laughed a little.

Then I hurt a lot.

Because sometimes letting go isn’t about the thing itself. It’s about what that thing represented.

Pearl was freedom. Pearl was strength. Pearl was before.

But even as she rolled away, I reminded myself: ALS may have taken the keys, but it never took my memories. It never took my gratitude. And it sure didn’t take my ability to laugh through tears.

So goodbye, Pearl. You were loved. You were loyal. And Lord knows… you were patient with my family.

Now let me go sit down before I start ugly crying like Tanja did over that Mercedes.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

I’m a day late, but I pray to God I’m not a life short. Yesterday marked the first day of summer, and I’m writing this as a life‑or‑death warning from someone who’s lived the “almost.”

Almost twenty years ago, I made a mistake that could have changed my entire world. A mistake that has cost some children their lives and some adults their freedom. I’m sharing this because I need you to understand how quickly it can happen — even to someone who loves their child deeply.

Back then, my wife Tanja handled the morning daycare drop‑off for our daughter Ariel. But on this particular morning, she had to be at work early. I told her, “No problem, I got it.” I buckled toddler‑Ariel into her car seat, kissed her cheek, and started driving.

Then the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

By the time I reached work, my mind had slipped into autopilot. My routine never included daycare. My route never passed it. My brain followed the pattern it knew — and my baby girl, asleep and silent in the back seat, was forgotten.

An hour later, I walked back to my SUV to grab something I’d left behind. When I opened the door, I heard a soft cry. Ariel. My daughter. My heart stopped. She had slept through the entire ride, and I had completely forgotten she was in the back seat

I scooped her up, checked her, held her tight, and thanked God over and over that she was alive and unharmed. Then came the hardest moment — calling Tanja to tell her what I had done. I can still feel the shame, the fear, and the weight of that confession.

The very next day, I turned on the TV and saw a story about a father who made the exact same mistake. Except his child didn’t survive. And he was sentenced to prison.

The only difference between him and me was grace.

If not for the mercy of God, that could have been my story. My child. My life shattered.

And here’s the part that hits me hardest today:

That little toddler is now 21 years old.

A grown woman. A blessing I still get to see, talk to, and love — all because of a miracle.

So hear me clearly:

This can happen to anyone.

Not bad parents. Not distracted parents. Human parents.

If you have infants or toddlers in your life, build a habit that forces you to check the back seat every single time you exit your vehicle. Put your phone back there. Put your shoe back there. Put your purse back there.

Do whatever it takes.

Because “Look Before You Lock” is not just a slogan.

It might be the reminder that lets your child turn 21.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Look Before You Lock: Grace Gave Me Another Chance

Bible Verse: “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.” — Lamentations 3:22 NIV

There are some moments in life that humble you so deeply, you never forget them. Moments that remind you that being loving, responsible, and careful does not make you immune from mistakes. Sometimes life moves fast. The phone rings. The schedule changes. The mind gets crowded. And before you realize it, routine has carried you somewhere your heart never intended to go.

I have learned that grace is not just something we sing about in church. Grace is the hand of God stepping into a moment that could have ended differently. Grace is mercy you did not earn. Grace is another chance when your own mistake could have broken your life forever.

That kind of grace should not make us careless. It should make us more careful.

Sometimes God allows us to survive a close call so we can become a warning sign for somebody else. Not out of shame, but out of love. Not to relive the pain, but to help another family avoid it.

So I encourage every parent, grandparent, caregiver, aunt, uncle, and friend: slow down long enough to check what matters. Don’t trust autopilot with what is precious. Don’t let distraction have the final word. Before you walk away, look again. Before you lock the door, check again. Before you assume everything is fine, pause again.

That extra moment may be inconvenient, but it may also be life-saving.

I thank God for mercy that covered me when I came too close. And because grace gave me another chance, I want to use my voice to help somebody else.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for grace that protects us even when we fall short. Help us slow down, pay attention, and care for the precious lives You have placed in our hands. Turn our close calls into wisdom and our wisdom into love. Amen.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The Night My World Went Dark

I recently received the video of my 99-yard kickoff return against Boston College in the opening game of the 1984 season.

For most people, that video is a highlight.

For me, it is both a miracle and a wound.

I see myself flying down that field, young, strong, full of promise, with the crowd roaring and the future wide open. I see a young man doing exactly what he believed he was born to do. And then I remember what came next.

The very next series, my life changed forever.

I blew out my knee.

In one moment, the lights of my dream began to dim. Over the next seven years, I would suffer six knee injuries and surgeries. I have never shared this before, but the pain became so heavy that twice I thought about putting an end to it all. I was lost. I lived destructively, trying to find my way back to the man I used to be, trying to make sense of a life that no longer looked like the one I had imagined.

While I was with the Denver Broncos, I blew out my knee for the final time. I was told it was my meniscus. Later, when I was with the Miami Dolphins, Coach Don Shula called me into his office and told me the truth: I had a torn ACL, and I was being released.

Just like that, my career was over.

I was 25 years old, sitting in an apartment I had signed a lease on two days earlier, broke, cut from a team for the first time in my life, and facing a surgery that would end the only dream I had ever known. My contract was voided because of a pre-existing injury. Then, as if life wanted to make sure I felt every ounce of the fall, someone broke into my new car—the one I could no longer afford—and stole the expensive sound system I had just installed.

I sat there in the dark, not just around me, but inside me.

I could not see tomorrow.

Football had always told me who I was. Without it, I felt like a failure. I felt forgotten. I felt cheated. And even now, every time I watch that 99-yard return, it is hard not to think about what might have been.

But God did not let that be the end of my story.

Years later, when I was diagnosed with ALS, I already knew what darkness felt like. I knew the sound of silence after the crowd stops cheering. I knew what it meant to lose the life you thought you were supposed to have. But I also knew how to pray from the floor. I knew how to get out of bed when my heart wanted to stay buried.

So when you see me smiling, understand this:

That smile did not come easy.

It came through pain, tears, depression, broken dreams, and battles nobody saw. It came from surviving nights I thought would destroy me.

And every time I see that video, I still wonder what might have been.

But I also remember this:

I am still here. And that means God was not finished with me.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The Night My World Went Dark

I recently received the video of my 99-yard kickoff return against Boston College in the opening game of the 1984 season.

For most people, that video is a highlight.

For me, it is both a miracle and a wound.

I see myself flying down that field, young, strong, full of promise, with the crowd roaring and the future wide open. I see a young man doing exactly what he believed he was born to do. And then I remember what came next.

The very next series, my life changed forever.

I blew out my knee.

In one moment, the lights of my dream began to dim. Over the next seven years, I would suffer six knee injuries and surgeries. I have never shared this before, but the pain became so heavy that twice I thought about putting an end to it all. I was lost. I lived destructively, trying to find my way back to the man I used to be, trying to make sense of a life that no longer looked like the one I had imagined.

While I was with the Denver Broncos, I blew out my knee for the final time. I was told it was my meniscus. Later, when I was with the Miami Dolphins, Coach Don Shula called me into his office and told me the truth: I had a torn ACL, and I was being released.

Just like that, my career was over.

I was 25 years old, sitting in an apartment I had signed a lease on two days earlier, broke, cut from a team for the first time in my life, and facing a surgery that would end the only dream I had ever known. My contract was voided because of a pre-existing injury. Then, as if life wanted to make sure I felt every ounce of the fall, someone broke into my new car—the one I could no longer afford—and stole the expensive sound system I had just installed.

I sat there in the dark, not just around me, but inside me.

I could not see tomorrow.

Football had always told me who I was. Without it, I felt like a failure. I felt forgotten. I felt cheated. And even now, every time I watch that 99-yard return, it is hard not to think about what might have been.

But God did not let that be the end of my story.

Years later, when I was diagnosed with ALS, I already knew what darkness felt like. I knew the sound of silence after the crowd stops cheering. I knew what it meant to lose the life you thought you were supposed to have. But I also knew how to pray from the floor. I knew how to get out of bed when my heart wanted to stay buried.

So when you see me smiling, understand this:

That smile did not come easy.

It came through pain, tears, depression, broken dreams, and battles nobody saw. It came from surviving nights I thought would destroy me.

And every time I see that video, I still wonder what might have been.

But I also remember this:

I am still here. And that means God was not finished with me.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

“THE DAY I REALIZED I AIN’T GOT THE GIFT”

I have been in church services where folks started speaking in tongues so fast I thought somebody accidentally sat on the fast‑forward button. I mean machine‑gun syllables, like they were auditioning for a Holy Ghost auction.

And every time it happens, I sit there thinking,

“Lord… is this You? Or is Sister Bernice just hungry and her spirit is growling?”

Because I promise you — I have NEVER understood a single syllable. Not one. Not even a hint. Everybody else nodding like they got the heavenly subtitles turned on, and I’m sitting there blinking like a confused Wi-Fi router.

Meanwhile the person next to me is shouting,

“YES LORD, I RECEIVE IT!”

And I’m thinking,

“Receive WHAT? Did y’all get a translation packet at the door? Did I miss orientation?”

Now biblically speaking — and this is where it gets funny — the Bible actually does say somebody is supposed to interpret. Paul said in 1 Corinthians 14 that if there’s no interpreter, the person should keep it down and talk to God quietly. In other words:

“If nobody knows what you’re saying, hush.”

But church folks? Oh no. They treat tongues like spiritual confetti. Throw it everywhere. No cleanup plan.

One time I asked a lady, “Ma’am, what did that mean?”

She said, “Baby, that was between me and God.”

I said, “Well then why you say it on the microphone?”

Another time a brother started speaking in tongues so aggressively I thought he was ordering fajitas. I was ready to raise my hand and say, “Yes, I’ll take rice and beans with that.”

And don’t get me started on the people who CLEARLY make it up. You know the ones. They start slow, like they’re buffering:

“Sha… sha… sha… sha-na-na… sha… Honda… Hyundai… Kawasaki…”

Ma’am. Sir. That is a car lot.

“Robo-shabba-kanda-honda!”

Now see, I heard “Honda,” so naturally I thought maybe the Lord was blessing somebody with reliable transportation.

Then Deacon Williams jumped up and hollered, “Glory!”

I said, “Glory for what? The extended warranty?”

But here’s the truth:

No, you’re not the only one who doesn’t understand.

No, you’re not crazy.

And yes — some folks, bless their heart, may just be like Sister Jenkins getting carried away with a little spiritual freestyle

The Bible says tongues are real, but they’re supposed to edify, not confuse. And if nobody understands, it’s supposed to be private, not a public performance with background organ.

So the next time somebody breaks out in tongues and you’re sitting there lost, just nod politely like you’re watching a foreign movie with no subtitles. God knows your heart.

And if you ever hear someone speaking in tongues and it sounds suspiciously like they’re ordering Chinese food, or calling plays from Alabama’s 1992 defensive playbook.

Just know:

Your spiritual discernment is working and you don’t need Holy Ghost Rosetta Stone with closed captions.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Today, I returned home to Town Creek, Alabama, to celebrate one of the many championship teams I was blessed to be a part of at Hazlewood High School. But what I thought would be a reunion turned into something much deeper. It became medicine for my soul.

The first stop was to see my mom and dad.

There is something powerful about seeing your 80-year-old parents laughing, smiling, and still carrying joy like it never went out of style. Watching them doing well boosted my spirit in a way I cannot fully explain. ALS has taken a lot from me, but it could not take the feeling of being back home, sitting in the presence of the two people who helped shape me before football, before championships, before life got complicated.

I hated that the visit had to be cut short, but I had somewhere else to be.

The reunion.

When I got there, I saw old teammates, coaches, classmates, and teachers. I saw faces that reminded me of who I was before ALS. I saw people who knew me when I was just a little boy from Town Creek trying to figure out how to be tough, how to compete, how to lead, and how to carry myself with pride.

As each speaker talked about the toughness, resilience, and character of the kids who walked those halls, something stirred in me. It brought back a motto that quietly floated through Hazlewood High School whenever we faced competition, pressure, or challenges.

“The Creek gone rise.”

That meant we were coming.

That meant we were not backing down.

That meant whatever you brought against us, Town Creek was going to rise up and meet it.

Sitting there, listening to those stories, I realized something: I am not alone in my fight against ALS. I never have been. I come from people who know how to rise. I come from a town where toughness was not just taught; it was lived. I come from coaches, teachers, teammates, family, and a community that poured something into me that ALS cannot reach.

Hazlewood High School may no longer exist as a building, but its spirit still casts a mighty shadow. The pride is still strong. The lessons still live. The championship mindset still breathes through every one of us who wore those colors and carried that name.

And when I don’t feel strong, I remember.

I remember I am still leading the way for others to follow.

I remember I am still here for a reason.

I remember that this little boy from Town Creek was built to meet whatever comes his way.

Because it is in my heart.

It is in my history.

It is in my DNA.

The Creek gone rise.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Joy in the Mess

Bible Verse: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.” — Proverbs 17:22 NLT

There are some days when life puts pressure on you from every direction. You try to keep things flowing, keep your faith steady, keep your attitude right, and keep your sense of humor close by. But every now and then, something gets clogged. The plan doesn’t work. The routine falls apart. The pressure builds. And before you know it, life has sprayed frustration all over the room.

I have learned that pressure reveals what is really inside us. It can bring out anger, impatience, fear, or exhaustion. But it can also bring out grace, laughter, love, and perspective. Living with ALS has taught me that I cannot control everything that happens to me, but I can ask God to help me control how I respond.

Some moments are messy. Some moments are embarrassing. Some moments make no sense at all. But even in those moments, God is still present. He is not waiting for life to be neat before He shows up. He meets us right in the middle of the chaos, the cleanup, the confusion, and the comedy.

I cannot move like I used to. I cannot speak like I used to. But I can still choose joy. I can still see God’s hand. I can still laugh when life does something ridiculous. And sometimes laughter is not a lack of faith; sometimes laughter is proof that faith is still breathing.

Grace does not mean everything goes smoothly. Grace means God gives you strength when it doesn’t. Grace means love stays in the room even when patience walks out for a minute. Grace means you can have a bad moment without having a bad life.

So when pressure builds, don’t lose heart. Take a breath. Ask God for patience. Look for the lesson. Find the humor. And remember, if His grace is sufficient, then even the mess can become a testimony.

Prayer: Lord, help me find joy in the pressure, patience in the mess, and grace in every unexpected moment. Amen.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Lemme tell you somethin’ real quick…

I can’t make this stuff up.

Today, my bedroom turned into an episode of I Love Lucy, except instead of Lucy stomping grapes, Tanja was getting baptized by my feeding tube.

I was lying in bed, minding my business, working on my computer like a productive, responsible citizen. Tanja came in with that syringe full of brown liquid—my “food,” allegedly. It looks like somebody blended a pot roast, a protein shake, and a bad decision.

She connected the syringe to the main valve of my feeding tube with the confidence of a NASCAR pit crew. But she was in a hurry. You know that wife-hurry. That “I love you, but I got twelve more things to do and you are currently number seven” kind of hurry.

She grabbed that syringe and pressed down like she was trying to inflate a tractor tire.

That’s when the second valve cap shoots off like a champagne cork at a wedding reception, except instead of bubbly, it’s my food blasting straight into her face. She looked like somebody poured a protein smoothie on her head and said, “Ma’am, this is your deep conditioning treatment.” Hair dripping. Face dripping. Shirt ruined. And me? I’m laying there like, “Lord… don’t let me laugh out loud. I ain’t got the lung capacity for CPR today.”

She storms off to clean up, comes back looking determined, hair slightly frizzy, shirt changed, dignity hanging on by a thread. She lines up the syringe again. I’m watching like a man who knows the punchline but can’t warn the cast.

She pushes.

SPLAT.

Right in the eyes. Both of them. She’s blinking like she just got hit with baby-food pepper spray. Her hair is giving “I’ve been through something.” Her shirt looks like she lost a fight with a pudding cup. And I am silently laughing so hard my soul is doing cartwheels.

But the universe wasn’t done.

She comes back for round three looking like she’s been through two revivals and a food fight. She steadies herself, breathes deep, and tries again.

By now, I’m looking at her like, “Tanja… maybe we should call this game on account of weather.”

And that’s when Old Faithful said, “Let me show you something.”

POW. Right in the mouth.

I mean a direct hit. A bullseye. A perfect 10 from the judges.

She froze. I froze. Even the feeding tube froze like, “Yeah… I did that.”

That’s when she realized the tube was clogged.

She looked at me, looked at the tube, looked at her shirt, and without a single word… walked away. Left me hungry. Left herself traumatized. Left the room smelling like a protein shake factory explosion.

And me? I’m laying there thinking, “I really married Lucy. And today was the season finale.”

Sometimes marriage is getting hit in the face three times by your husband’s liquefied dinner and still not filing for divorce.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The Proclamation Man

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere between my first proclamation and my third one, I officially became The Proclamation Man.

Not Batman.

Not Superman.

Not Iron Man.

Nope.

Just me, sitting in my power chair like a retired superhero, waiting on somebody to hand me another fancy piece of paper that says, “This man has been out here raising awareness, fighting ALS, and apparently collecting proclamations like Pokémon cards.”

This week, I received my third proclamation.

That’s right. Third.

At this point, I need a proclamation folder, a proclamation shelf, and possibly a proclamation security guard named Jerome who stands beside them saying, “Don’t touch Mr. Goode’s government paperwork.”

This latest one came from the City of South Fulton, Georgia, and it hit my heart in a special way.

Now, I’ve already been blessed to receive a proclamation from Governor Kay Ivey of Alabama, and another from the State of Georgia and Governor Brian Kemp for the work my partner Gary Godfrey and I have been doing in the fight against ALS.

But this one was different.

This one focused on Black men with ALS.

And let me tell you, that matters.

Because for far too long, ALS has been treated like it only shows up in middle-aged white men who look like they drink black coffee, own hiking boots, and know how to pronounce “charcuterie.”

But ALS does not check your playlist.

It does not care if you grew up on gospel, Motown, hip-hop, R&B, or Saturday morning soul food.

ALS does not care if your uncle still wears Stacy Adams to the family cookout.

It shows up wherever it wants.

And too many Black men are being diagnosed too late.

By the time they find out what’s really going on, the disease has already moved in, rearranged the furniture, eaten the groceries, and started acting like it owns the house.

That’s what I’m trying to change.

I want brothers to know the warning signs.

I want them to go to the doctor.

I want them to stop saying, “It’s just a little weakness,” while dragging one leg like they’re auditioning for a zombie movie.

We have got to talk about this.

We have got to educate.

We have got to make noise.

And thanks to Mayor Carmalitha Gumbs and Councilman Jaceey Sebastian, South Fulton helped shine a light where it desperately needs to shine.

So yes, I am grateful.

Yes, I am honored.

And yes, I may now answer to The Proclamation Man.

Because if these proclamations help one Black man get diagnosed earlier, ask better questions, or fight harder for answers, then hand me every proclamation you got.

I’ll take the certificate, the picture, the handshake, and the fancy folder.

Because this fight is bigger than recognition.

It’s about awareness.

It’s about lives.

And if God can use a former running back in a power chair to sound the alarm, then let the record show:

The Proclamation Man is still on duty.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

When Laughter Meets Grace

“A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” — Proverbs 17:22

I have learned that life can bring you into rooms where tears are expected, silence is appropriate, and everybody is doing their best to hold themselves together.

But even in those heavy places, God still knows how to let a little light slip through.

Sometimes that light comes through a prayer.

Sometimes it comes through a song.

And sometimes, whether we are ready for it or not, it comes through laughter that sneaks up on you like it has no home training.

I used to think reverence meant you had to stay serious all the time. But life has taught me that joy does not always wait for the perfect moment. Sometimes joy shows up right in the middle of sorrow, taps you on the shoulder, and reminds you that grief is not the only voice in the room.

That does not mean we do not respect the moment.

It means even in our pain, God has not left us comfortless.

Laughter does not erase love. It does not disrespect loss. Sometimes laughter is proof that love is still alive in the room. It is the sound of family history, shared memories, and the kind of bond that can survive heartache and still find a reason to breathe.

And I believe God understands that.

He made the heart tender enough to cry and strong enough to laugh. He gave us tears for release and joy for medicine. Both can be holy when they come from a place of love.

So today, I want to encourage somebody who feels guilty for smiling in a hard season. Do not let sorrow convince you that joy is out of place.

Joy is not a betrayal of your pain.

Joy is God’s reminder that pain does not get the final word.

Even when the room is heavy, grace can still break through.

And sometimes, that grace sounds like laughter.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The Marie Family Funeral

Lemme tell y’all somethin’...

There are certain places where my brothers and I should not be seated together.

A courtroom.

A staff meeting.

A parent-teacher conference.

And most definitely, a funeral.

Because when all five of us get lined up on one pew, it does not look like grief. It looks like the front row of a comedy club waiting on the opening act.

Now, we were at my grandmother’s funeral, trying our absolute best to behave — which, historically, is a spiritual battle all by itself. My mother had already given us that look before the service started.

Not a regular look.

The look that says, “I brought you in this world, and I will take you out during the obituary if necessary.”

So we sat there straight-faced, hands folded, heads bowed, acting like we had home training.

Then one of the associate pastors got up to offer condolences.

He adjusted the microphone, cleared his throat, and said with great spiritual confidence,

“To the Marie family, we offer our deepest condolences.”

Now all five of us looked up at the same time.

Marie?

I looked at my brother.

My brother looked at me.

Another brother looked at the program.

Somebody whispered, “Do we know Marie?”

Because last time I checked, Sir, this is the Goode family. GOODE. As in “God is good all the time,” not “Marie and them.”

The pastor kept going.

“We want the church to wrap your arms around the Marie family during this difficult time.”

Now we’re confused. We thinking maybe Marie was Grandma’s secret church name.

Like maybe she had a ministry alias.

Sister Marie Goode.

Then he said it AGAIN, louder this time, like the Lord Himself needed to hear it.

“The Marie family needs our prayers.”

And that’s when it hit us — one by one — like a slow‑motion tidal wave of revelation.

He wasn’t trying to say Marie family.

He was trying to say…

“the bereaved family.”

But what came out was the Marie family.

And when understanding finally hit that pew, it hit us one by one like the Holy Spirit doing roll call.

First, one brother dropped his head.

Then another one started shaking.

Then somebody’s shoulders began bouncing.

Then I made the mistake of looking down the pew.

That was it.

We were finished.

We weren’t laughing loud, but we were doing that church laugh where your whole body is in cardiac arrest but your mouth is trying to stay saved.

The pastor kept adding fuel.

“We ask God to strengthen the Marie family…”

“Cover the Marie family…”

“Bless the Marie family…”

By now, I’m sweating like I stole something from the church kitchen.

My mother slowly turned around.

Not fast.

Slow.

Like a horror movie deaconess.

She looked at all five of us and whispered,

“Y’all going to hell.”

Which, I admit, was not comforting during a funeral.

But all I could think was, “Well, at least the Marie family will have company.”

By the end of the service, we were no longer the bereaved.

We were the Marie family, survivors of grief, church mispronunciations, and Mama’s judgment.

And somewhere in heaven, I believe Grandma was laughing too.

Because she knew one thing for sure:

When all five Goode boys sit together, even a funeral needs an usher, a prayer cloth, and a warning label.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Devotional “Two Weeks to a Miracle”

Sometimes life hits pause when you least expect it. You plan, you prepare, you dream big—and then something knocks the wind out of you. But here’s the truth: a setback doesn’t cancel your calling. It just gives God a new stage to show His power.

When we’re weak, He’s strong. When we’re behind, He’s ahead. When we’re out of breath, He’s already clearing the path. The same God who spoke light into darkness can turn exhaustion into endurance and chaos into clarity.

I’ve learned that miracles don’t always arrive wrapped in comfort—they show up in motion. They appear when you decide to keep going, even when your body says stop. They bloom when you choose faith over fear, when you look at the mountain and say, “I may not have the strength, but I know Who does.”

Every person who stands with you, every sponsor, every player, every donor—each one is part of that miracle. They’re proof that God moves through people, through compassion, through community. He doesn’t just heal bodies; He heals hearts through the hands that help.

So if you’re facing your own “two‑week miracle,” don’t give up. Don’t cancel what God has called you to complete. You may feel behind, but Heaven is never late. The same breath that raised Jesus from the grave is the breath that fills your lungs today.

Keep pressing. Keep believing. Keep reaching out. Because when you do, you’ll see that the miracle isn’t just the event—it’s the endurance, the courage, and the faith that carried you through it.

“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

Today, choose to believe that your comeback is already in motion. The miracle is not waiting for you at the finish line—it’s happening right now, in every breath, every prayer, and every act of faith.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The Golf Tournament Miracle

The month of May was supposed to be my official Golf Tournament Preparation Month.

I had plans.

I had lists.

I had phone calls to make, sponsors to chase, players to recruit, donations to secure, and enough details floating around my head to make a wedding planner need a nerve pill.

But apparently pneumonia said, “Not so fast, Coach Goode. We got other plans.”

So instead of spending May getting ready for the golf tournament, I spent it going in and out of the hospital like I had a frequent flyer membership at the pneumonia resort.

And let me tell you, that is one resort I do not recommend. No golf carts. No sweet tea. No complimentary snacks worth bragging about. Just beeping machines, nurses checking on you every twelve minutes, and doctors walking in with that look like they’re about to tell you your body has been acting a fool again.

At one point, I seriously thought about canceling the tournament.

I said, “Lord, I can’t pull this off. I just got out of the hospital. I’m behind on sponsors. Behind on players. Behind on energy. Behind on everything except medical bills and prayer requests.”

But then my wife Tanja looked at me with that look.

Y’all married folks know the look.

That look that says, “I love you, but you are not about to sit here and talk crazy in front of me.”

She reminded me that this tournament is bigger than golf.

This tournament helps ALS patients and families with household bills, medical bills, and scholarships for the children of ALS patients. It supports Kerry’s Kidz of Joy, helping children with school supplies, summer camps, and opportunities they may miss because a parent is fighting ALS. It helps us sponsor A Weekend with the Tide, an all-expenses-paid experience for physically challenged kids or children who have gone through traumatic events.

That’s when I realized, this is not just a golf tournament.

This is hope with a tee time.

So here I am, fresh out of the hospital, trying to catch up like a man chasing a golf cart rolling downhill with no brakes.

The tournament is June 13th, and I have two weeks to pull off what may require prayer, sponsors, players, donations, caffeine, grace, and possibly an angel wearing cleats.

But I believe we can do it.

I cannot do it without you.

I need sponsors.

I need players.

I need donations.

I need people who believe that families fighting ALS should not have to fight alone.

Please go to https://t.co/AuXeVw4taJ and support the Kerry Goode Foundation, or call 877-354-6633.

Help me pull off this miracle.

Because on June 13th, we are not just swinging clubs.

We are swinging hope.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

This one right here is a public announcement for all the fully‑mobile, two‑legged, wandering, strolling, sashaying family members who insist on asking a man who sits in a wheelchair 14 to 17 hours a day the world’s most unnecessary question:

“Are you ready?”

Ready?

READY?

Ma’am… sir… what exactly do y’all think I’m doing over here?

Running wind sprints?

Practicing my high‑knees?

Doing a quick set of burpees before we leave?

I’ve been in the same spot since the Clinton administration.

If I ain’t ready by now, I’m never gonna be.

See, when you’re paralyzed, “getting ready” is not a process.

It’s a lifestyle.

It’s a state of being.

It’s a spiritual posture.

I stay ready like TSA agents stay suspicious.

I stay ready like church mothers stay nosy.

I stay ready like Alabama fans stay delusional in the off‑season.

So when they ask, “Are you ready?”

I just look at them like:

“I stay ready so I don’t have to get ready.”

Before ALS, that was my cute little snappy line.

A smooth, charming way of saying,

“Hurry up, woman, I’ve been waiting in the car since 1998.”

But now?

Now it’s a whole philosophy.

A mindset.

A football‑practice‑built, whistle‑blowing, coach‑yelling, two‑a‑day‑survival strategy.

Thousands of drills taught me one thing:

Prepare NOW for what MIGHT happen, so you’re not panicking when it DOES.

And the funniest part?

I don’t even get to finish the sentence anymore.

They cut me off like they’re tired of the sermon:

“I know, I know… you stay ready so you don’t have to get ready.”

They say it with that tone.

That “we’ve heard this 4,000 times” tone.

That “Daddy, please, we just asked a question” tone.

But listen—this ain’t just a slogan.

This is life.

This is wisdom.

This is eternal preparation.

Because one day, all of us—wheelchair or not—are gonna get the ultimate question:

“Are you ready?”

And you better not be scrambling like you lost your keys.

So yes, I stay ready:

Ready to eat.

Ready to sleep.

Ready to roll.

Ready to be loaded into the van like precious cargo.

Ready for life.

Ready for death.

Ready for whatever God’s got next.

Get ready.

Get Ready.

GET READY.

Because if you stay ready…

you never have to get ready.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Stay Ready for Life’s Whistle

There’s a certain peace that comes when you live prepared. I’ve learned that readiness isn’t just about having your shoes tied or your bag packed—it’s about having your heart, mind, and spirit tuned for whatever God allows next.

Every day, I sit in this chair, and I’ve realized something powerful: readiness is not movement—it’s mindset. You can be still and still be ready. You can be waiting and still be working. You can be limited in body but limitless in spirit.

When I say, “I stay ready so I don’t have to get ready,” it’s not just a clever comeback—it’s a declaration of faith. It means I’ve already done the inner work. I’ve prayed, I’ve trusted, I’ve surrendered. So when life calls my name, I don’t have to scramble—I just roll forward.

Preparation is the quiet discipline that builds confidence before the storm hits. It’s the spiritual conditioning that keeps you calm when others panic. It’s the practice of saying, “Lord, I’m ready,” even when you don’t know what’s coming next.

The Bible reminds us in Matthew 24:44, “So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.” That verse isn’t meant to scare—it’s meant to strengthen. It’s God’s way of saying, “Live ready.”

Stay ready in your faith. Stay ready in your forgiveness. Stay ready in your gratitude. Because when you live prepared, you don’t waste time getting ready—you’re already walking in purpose.

So today, whether you’re sitting, standing, or waiting—be ready. Ready to love. Ready to serve. Ready to laugh. Ready to go when God says go.

Because readiness isn’t about motion—it’s about devotion.

And when you stay ready, you’ll never be caught off guard by grace.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

When Others See What God Placed in You

“For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” — Ephesians 2:10

Sometimes I have to remind myself that my view of me is not always the full picture. I can look at my limitations, my struggles, my tired days, and all the things I wish were different, and convince myself that there is nothing special to see.

But God has a way of letting other people recognize what we overlook.

Someone may see strength in you while you only feel exhausted. Someone may hear wisdom in your words while you are still questioning your own voice. Someone may be encouraged by your faith while you think you are barely holding on.

That is not by accident.

God often places treasure inside us long before we know how to name it. He gives us gifts, purpose, compassion, endurance, and light, then allows others to point it out when we are too close to our own pain to see it clearly.

I have learned not to dismiss every compliment, every word of encouragement, or every person who says, “You helped me.” Sometimes that is not flattery. Sometimes that is confirmation.

You may not feel like a leader, but somebody is watching how you keep showing up. You may not feel strong, but somebody is drawing courage from your endurance. You may not feel gifted, but somebody needed the very words, smile, prayer, or testimony you almost kept to yourself.

Do not shrink from what God is revealing through other people.

The scars you see may be the proof of survival someone else needs. The light you think is dim may be guiding someone through a dark place. The purpose you question may already be working.

So today, do not wave away what God is showing you.

You are more than what you have been through.

You are more than what you lost.

You are God’s workmanship.

And sometimes, the people around you see it before you do.

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

The other day I rolled outside like I was just going to Publix, minding my own business, trying to buy some chicken thighs and maybe a pack of grapes if they didn’t require a second mortgage.

But the moment I hit the driveway, something was off.

My neighbor, Ms. Jenkins, the unofficial mayor of the cul-de-sac and the only woman alive who can gossip in complete paragraphs, froze mid-trash-bag toss.

“Well look at YOU,” she said, squinting like I was a solar eclipse. “Walking around here looking like purpose wrapped in potential.”

I looked behind me.

Nobody there.

“Ma’am, I’m just going to Publix.”

She waved her hand. “Mmm-hmm. That’s what people say right before they change the world.”

Now I’m confused. I’m not changing the world. I’m trying to remember if Tanja said get paper towels or paper plates. At my age, that’s a two-minute prayer meeting.

I kept rolling until I got to Publix. The automatic doors opened like they were impressed.

The produce guy stopped stacking apples and whispered, “There he is.”

I said, “There who?”

He said, “You. The one with the glow.”

Glow? Sir, the only glow I had was from forgetting deodorant and hoping grace had antiperspirant.

Then a little boy in aisle seven pointed at me and hollered, “Mommy, look! A superhero!”

Tanja looked around like, “Where? Who he talking about?”

I looked around too. I thought maybe Spider-Man was over by the BOGO cereal.

His mama smiled and said, “Yes baby, some people don’t know they’re superheroes yet.”

Now hold on.

I checked my reflection in the freezer door. I didn’t see a superhero. I saw a man in a wheelchair looking like a Transformer that needed a software update, with gadgets hanging off me like I was built by NASA, Medicare, and a confused electrician.

I said, “Lord, they must be seeing something I missed.”

See, we are funny like that. We can spot everybody else’s purpose from across the room, but when it comes to our own, we need bifocals, a flashlight, and three deacons named Clarence to help us locate it.

Sometimes people see in you what you cannot see in yourself.

They say, “You’re strong.”

You say, “Strong? I almost lost my salvation when the remote fell on the floor.”

They say, “You inspire me.”

You say, “Me? I was just trying not to cry in public.”

They say, “You have wisdom.”

You say, “Wisdom? Yesterday I tried to open the garage with the TV remote.”

But maybe they’re not just being nice.

Maybe they’re seeing the coach before you accept the whistle.

The writer before you believe your words matter.

The encourager before you realize your pain has turned into purpose.

But that’s how God works sometimes. He lets others see the treasure in us before we recognize it ourselves.

Because when we look in the mirror, we see the mistakes, the scars, the failures, the awkward years, the bad decisions, the wrong turns, and that haircut from 1987 that should have required repentance.

That’s why you better be careful dismissing what people see in you. Everybody ain’t just being nice. Some folks are giving you a preview of what God already placed inside you.

So I rolled through Publix a little taller that day.

Still bought the chicken thighs.

Still forgot the paper towels.

But I left thinking, “Well, look at that…

I might be more than I thought.”

[Kerry Goode @KerryGoode]

Tougher Than I Thought

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8

There was a time when I thought toughness was measured by how hard you could hit, how much pain you could ignore, or how loudly you could tell the world, “I’m good,” even when you were not.

But life has taught me that real toughness looks different.

Sometimes toughness is not standing tall. Sometimes it is still having faith when you cannot stand at all. Sometimes it is not running through a defense. Sometimes it is making it through another difficult day with your mind still fixed on hope.

I have learned that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is tired. Sometimes it is wrapped in pain, weakness, discomfort, medicine, machines, treatments, prayers, and people who help you do what you cannot do for yourself.

But do not confuse assisted living with defeated living.

If you are fighting something that has changed your body, interrupted your plans, or forced you to depend on others, I want you to know this: you are stronger than you think. You may not feel powerful today. You may not look the way you used to look. You may not move the way you used to move. But the fact that you are still here means there is still purpose in your breath.

There is a kind of courage that only suffering can reveal. It is the courage to keep believing when nothing feels easy. It is the courage to receive help without losing your dignity. It is the courage to face the mirror and still recognize a fighter looking back.

So today, give yourself some credit. You have survived days that would have broken the old version of you. You have carried burdens nobody fully understands. You have been pressed, but not crushed.

And by God’s grace, you are still here.

Still fighting.

Still valuable.

Still loved.

Still becoming tougher than you ever imagined.