ALS: The Immovable Mountain

There are some mountains in life that can be climbed.

With enough time, enough strength, enough determination, and enough help, we find a way over them. We learn the path. We adjust our footing. We keep moving.

But ALS feels different.

ALS is not a hill I chose to climb. It is not a challenge I signed up for. It is not something I can train harder for, push through, or overcome by willpower alone.

ALS can feel like an immovable mountain.

It stands in front of me every day.

It changes how I move.
It changes how I speak.
It changes how I breathe.
It changes what independence looks like.

And yet, even though the mountain has not moved, I am still here.

Living in the Shadow of the Mountain

When you are living with ALS, the mountain is always there.

Some days, it is impossible to ignore. It shows up in the smallest tasks — reaching for something, adjusting in a chair, needing help with what used to be simple.

Other days, the mountain feels emotional. It is the weight of knowing things are changing. It is the quiet grief of losing pieces of life one at a time. It is the frustration of depending on others when you once stood on your own.

ALS does not only affect the body. It reaches into the heart. It tests patience. It tests faith. It tests identity.

There are moments when I look at this mountain and wonder how anyone is supposed to face something so big.

But then I remember something important.

The mountain may be immovable to me, but it is not bigger than God.

When Strength Is Not Enough

There was a time when I believed strength meant pushing harder.

Keep going.
Do more.
Be independent.
Handle it yourself.

But ALS has taught me that human strength has limits.

That is a hard lesson.

It is humbling to need help. It is humbling to slow down. It is humbling to admit that some things are no longer in my control.

But maybe real strength is not pretending the mountain is small.

Maybe real strength is being honest about how heavy it feels — and still choosing to face another day.

Faith does not always remove the mountain. Sometimes faith gives us the courage to keep breathing in its shadow.

The Mountain Has Changed Me

I will not pretend ALS has not changed my life. It has.

But it has also changed the way I see life.

Small moments matter more now. A quiet morning. A familiar voice. A hand resting on mine. A message from someone who cares. A prayer whispered when words are hard to find.

The things I once rushed past now feel sacred.

ALS has taken much, but it has also revealed what cannot be taken so easily.

Love.
Faith.
Purpose.
Hope.
The presence of God.

Those things still remain.

Faith Before the Mountain

Jesus said:

“Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”
— Matthew 17:20, NIV

I have thought about that verse many times.

Sometimes we read it and think the mountain must disappear immediately. But I have learned that faith is not always about watching the mountain move all at once.

Sometimes faith is waking up and saying, “Lord, help me face it again today.”

Sometimes faith is trusting God when the mountain is still standing.

Sometimes faith is believing that even if the mountain does not move in the way I hoped, God is still moving in me.

Still Here

ALS may be the immovable mountain in front of me.

But it is not the end of my story.

I am still a husband.
I am still a friend.
I am still a voice.
I am still a child of God.
I am still me.

The mountain is real, but so is grace.

The weakness is real, but so is love.

The uncertainty is real, but so is hope.

And breath by breath, day by day, I am learning that the goal is not always to conquer the mountain.

Sometimes the victory is simply this:

I am still here.

And God is still with me.

A Quiet Invitation

Maybe you are facing your own immovable mountain.

It may not be ALS. It may be grief, illness, loneliness, fear, or something no one else can fully see.

Whatever it is, I hope you remember this:

The mountain in front of you does not get the final word.

God is still present.
Hope is still alive.
And even here, even now, your story still matters.

Until next time, God bless.