He Can Do It Again
These four stories are our founder's own — told first-person, exactly as they happened, in the order they happened. They share one strange signature: in each one, the provision turned out to be older than the prayer. The answer wasn't scrambled together at the last minute; it was already parked in the past, waiting for the moment of obedience to release it. Read them in order — the first one is where the faith in the other three was born.
1. The Thirty-Seven Dollars (2005)
I had just paid rent and had thirty-seven dollars left for two weeks. A friend came over and said, "God is a great big God — he doesn't let his children go hungry. Take it down to the church right now and put it in the offering." I fought the idea. The church wasn't even open. It felt crazy. But I drove down, walked into the lobby, and put all thirty-seven dollars in the bucket.
Driving out of the parking lot, my phone rang — a man I hadn't spoken to in years. "I'm calling to pay you back that money you gave me three years ago. Three hundred dollars. I just got paid, and I want to give it to you before I spend it. Where can I bring it?" I had completely forgotten the loan. From that point forward, I never doubted the Lord again.
The answer was three years old before the prayer was three minutes old.
2. The Hundred Dollars That Came Back (2006)
I wanted to attend ministry school and couldn't afford it. I told the manager plainly: "I don't have the money, but I know I'm supposed to be here." She said, "Come back tomorrow and give me something." That night at a Bible study, a stranger walked up: "The Lord told me I'm supposed to give you this hundred dollars." I brought it in the next day and was accepted. Two months in, the school announced someone had anonymously paid half my tuition.
At year's end I still owed a thousand dollars — pay it or skip the graduation ceremony. I said I'd give it to the Lord. The next day a check arrived in the mail that I almost threw away as fake. It was real: a refund a credit-card company had owed me for seven years, sitting somewhere gathering interest. Eleven hundred dollars. I paid the thousand — and kept a hundred for myself. The story ended the way it began: with a hundred dollars I didn't have the day before.
The seed you plant has a way of finding its way home.
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3. The House With the Numbers (about 2015)
I had no money for a home, but I had one certainty: the Lord could do it. I didn't know how. I prayed. Within a year, eighteen thousand dollars came to me out of nowhere — a down payment. Meanwhile I kept encountering the same four-digit number everywhere: the gallons on the gas pump when the nozzle clicked off, the number on the back of a truck trailer. I wondered if it was an address.
I found a vacant house on a street with exactly those four numbers, tracked down the owner, and made him an offer: rent it to me for twelve months, and at the end I'll buy it at a fixed price — a generous one — not knowing if I could even get a loan. He signed. A year later the market had risen and he wanted out of the deal, but he said, "A deal's a deal," and sold. The loan came through. I live in that story.
Faith signs the agreement before the bank does.
4. The Pilot Who Flew Again (2006–2012)
Read the full story on our Starting Over page: thirteen years out of the cockpit, one sentence spoken over me — "You're gonna fly again" — and by the next afternoon I was hired at a jet center that happened to need a pilot that very day.
I flew organ-donor transplant flights until 2012, carrying second chances to strangers.
You're one encounter away from walking into your destiny.
There's a fifth story. It's being written right now — its author is fifty-nine, building something new, and not quitting until it's funded. He can do it again, too.
The Soundtrack
If this page had a soundtrack, it would be Tauren Wells' song "Hills and Valleys." Without borrowing a line of it, here is what it preaches: the singer has walked both altitudes — the heartbreak and the brighter days, the broken dreams and the blessings — and has learned the two confessions that keep a soul honest at both elevations. On the summit: I didn't build this mountain myself. In the low place: I'm not walking here by myself. The same God governs both, gives and takes away in both, and remains over it all.
That's the shape of every story on this page, and probably the shape of yours. If you're on a mountain today, hold it with open hands — you were set there. If you're in a valley, lift your eyes — you're seen there. And either way, you are not alone.
(Go listen to the song. It says all of this better, with a melody.)