There are moments in life when God whispers. And then there are moments when He thunders. My calling was neither — it was a steady hand on my shoulder, an invisible tug guiding me from curiosity to compassion, from knowledge to service.

From the time I was a boy, I sensed that healing would be part of my path. But healing goes far deeper than medicine. I didn’t know that then. What I knew was this: I wanted to help. I wanted to be a force for good in a world aching with pain, fear, and questions.

Growing up in a working-class neighborhood, I watched my family fight through hardship with quiet resilience. My parents didn’t preach sermons, but they lived them. They taught me that a man’s worth isn’t found in what he earns but in how he serves. The principle that would eventually shape my medical practice — "Treat others as you want God to treat you" — had already taken root.

Fast-forward years later, and I found myself walking hospital halls, stethoscope in hand, driven by something deeper than ambition: calling.

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.” – Jeremiah 1:5

Every step toward medicine was also a step closer to God’s purpose. But what I didn’t realize at the time was that being a doctor would not be my only ministry.

Medicine as Ministry

I didn’t set out to be a shepherd. I set out to be a doctor. But in God’s design, the two became one.

For more than 20 years, I ran a thriving family medicine practice. I had over 300,000 patient encounters with a patient population of over 16,000 patients. But beneath every diagnosis, I saw a soul. And that made all the difference.

Some came with coughs and cuts, colds and calluses. Others came with heartbreak, trauma, or simply a need to be heard. My exam rooms became sacred spaces where healing extended far beyond the prescription pad.

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

I made it a point to learn their stories, not just their symptoms. To ask about their family, their fears, their faith. And in doing so, I discovered that spiritual healing and physical healing often walk hand-in-hand.

A Good Day’s Work for a Fair Day’s Wage

My guiding principle — the one I built my practice on — was simple but firm: offer excellent care, and trust God to provide. I never chased money. I chased excellence. I believed that if I honored God through my work, He would take care of the rest.

That belief was tested more than once.

Sometimes, the greatest steps of faith begin with surrender — not of dreams, but of our comfort.

I sold everything I owned. My wife and I packed our lives into a few bags and boxes, gathered our three young children, and boarded a plane bound for the unknown. Our destination? Grenada. Our purpose? Medical school — and God’s will.

St. George’s University sat like a beacon on the island, and I, a husband and father, walked into its doors not just to study medicine, but to walk the tightrope between duty and faith. We weren’t just pursuing a career — we were answering a call.

Those first 18 months in Grenada were both beautiful and brutal. We had no screens on our windows or doors, which meant swatting flies and mosquitoes became a daily ritual. My daughter was stung by a bee almost immediately after arriving. There were no emergency rooms nearby — just prayer, patience, and a mother’s care.

We watched a cow give birth on our front lawn. We watched neighbors bathe their children in slop sinks — the same ones they used for washing laundry. Every moment on that island peeled back our layers of comfort and showed us what faith looked like without the trappings of convenience.

When it came time to continue my education, we packed what few belongings we had onto a 61-foot-long sailboat and made the overnight journey to the island of St. Vincent. There, I finished my second year of medical school. Our children, homeschooled by my wife, didn’t miss a beat. In fact, they thrived in ways that only God could orchestrate.

After St. Vincent, we returned to the United States, settling in Greenville, North Carolina. There, I began my residency training at East Carolina University. It was a season of rebuilding — professionally, emotionally, and spiritually.

Looking back, I realize now that what felt like hardship at the time was actually God shaping us. Teaching us. Like silver and gold which is refined by fire separating the dross. Stripping away the excess and anchoring us in Him.

“Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life. You stretch out your hand… and your right hand delivers me.” – Psalm 138:7

These were the trials that refined my calling. Not the medical boards or the all-nighters — but the sting of the unknown, the taste of sacrifice, and the presence of God in the most unlikely places.

The trial didn’t break us. It made us.

And the story continues...

By the time we returned to the United States, I had walked through fire — and I wasn’t done yet. Residency training at East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina, was a different kind of wilderness. It wasn’t the mosquitoes or lack of running water that tested me now. It was the intensity of the schedule, the pressure of performance, and the ever-present voice in my head asking, “Can I do this?” But as the Apostle Paul taught, in Philippians 4:13, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Residency was humbling. It forced me to find clarity in chaos and strength through surrender. I was no longer the young man hoping to wear a white coat. I was a husband and father — and a student of life’s hard lessons. Every 36-hour shift, every pre-dawn call, every emotionally drained drive home was another refining fire.

And yet, something beautiful was happening beneath the stress: my resolve was being forged.

I saw patients in emergency rooms, clinics, and hospital beds, sometimes with textbook cases, and other times with mysteries that no lab result could explain. But behind every clipboard and code was a child of God, and I never let myself forget that.

It was during these years that I began to understand what kind of doctor I wanted to be — and what kind I didn’t.

“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” – Romans 5:3-4

God wasn’t just refining my medical skill. He was refining my character, my patience, my understanding of what it means to heal. What it meant to be comforted so that I could comfort others with the comfort God had given me. And the more I leaned on Him, the more He carried me.

My wife’s support during this time cannot be overstated. She was my anchor, my help meet — homeschooling our children, holding our family together, and reminding me of the bigger picture. We weren’t just surviving. We were sowing seeds of a future we couldn’t yet see.

Proverbs 19:14 “House and wealth are inherited from fathers, but a prudent wife is from the Lord.”

Those years in Greenville laid the foundation for everything that came after — both the rise and the fall of my first practice, and the unexpected grace that would follow.

God was still writing the story. I just had to keep showing up.

And I did.

While many of my fellow residents saw six to eight patients in clinic, I regularly saw ten to fifteen. I pushed myself harder than I ever had, not to prove something to others — but because I knew the clock was ticking. I only had four years to learn everything I possibly could. After that, I’d be on my own.

There would be no safety net. No attending physician looking over my shoulder. No one to hold my hand — except God.

And it was during that intense season that I discovered a deeper truth: I could not be self-reliant. I had to be God-reliant.

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." – Isaiah 41:10

Time and time again, He upheld me. He watched over my family. He provided. He sustained.

When I opened my first medical practice, I stepped into a dream fulfilled. It was built from scratch — no partners, no investors, just faith, grit, and a desire to serve.

Patients came by the hundreds. Then thousands. And before long, I had a full practice with over 16,000 active patients. We were in the top one percent of practices nationwide. But more than that, it was a place where people felt seen. Where they felt safe. Where they felt hope.

It wasn’t long after that I was published in the New England Journal of Medicine for research I was involved in. A milestone that well below 0.1% ever achieve. But it was from God, and I knew it.

Something that only God had brought me from the night skies of Grenada — where I saw the Southern Cross for the first time and whispered David’s ancient question, “What is man that You are mindful of him?” — to a flourishing practice in Greenville, North Carolina.

He had refined me like gold. He had molded me like clay. And now, He was letting the light shine through the vessel He had shaped.

This was the rise.

But as I would later learn, every mountaintop comes with its own set of storms. Every mountain has its summits - it’s peaks and valleys but when you arrive at the summit the view and its perspective was well worth the ascent.

And even then, God was already preparing the way.

As a medical doctor in North Carolina, I knew that if I were to die, my wife would not be allowed to own or operate a medical practice. That legal restriction weighed heavily on me. I didn’t want to leave her financially vulnerable, and so — with great thought and prayer — I made the difficult decision to sell my practice. I wanted to secure her future.

The buyer came with grand promises: a CT scanner, an in-house medication kiosk so our patients would never go without essential prescriptions, and expansion plans that sounded like a dream. But I would soon learn that his words were empty.

From the moment he took control, the unraveling began.

He immediately fired the office manager — a trusted pillar of the practice — a decision that signaled the storm to come. Over the next months, 26 employees were terminated. One evening, after 4:00 p.m., six of the remaining nine staff members were fired one by one — a calculated act meant to inflict maximum damage and fear.

Surveillance cameras were installed in the ceilings down every hallway and in every office. The warm, personal environment we had cultivated turned into a place of suspicion and dread. I didn’t know it then, but the man who now owned the practice was already in financial trouble. He was looking — desperately — for a way to break our contract.

He tried everything.

He hired a new office manager with one job: find something to use against me. He even hired a scribe to follow me into exam rooms, hoping to catch a mistake. But what he didn’t know was this: I am a man who keeps my word, even to my own hurt — just as scripture commands.

“Lord, who may dwell in your sacred tent?... He who keeps an oath even when it hurts and does not change their mind.” – Psalm 15:1,4

This same individual had purchased two other medical practices in North Carolina, both of which collapsed alongside mine.

The stress and heartbreak of watching everything I had built be dismantled piece by piece took its toll. I ended up in the hospital with a critically low sodium level — 121 mmol/L. I was admitted for three days, teetering on the edge of life. Had God chosen to let me drift off to sleep, it might have seemed merciful.

But that was not His intention.

Those were the darkest days of my life. Everything I had worked for — everything I had dreamed of since I was a five-year-old boy — was now shattered. It bore all the fingerprints of Satan: the thief who comes to steal, kill, and destroy.

I had tried to live my life in the footsteps of my Elder Brother, Jesus Christ — who came to give life, and give it more abundantly. But God had allowed this season of loss. And like Job, I could sense God was doing something, even though I couldn’t see what.

I held fast to His promises. I remembered King David’s words — that God would not permit the righteous to be moved. I clung to the unchanging nature of my Creator:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” – Hebrews 13:8

“It is impossible for God to lie.” – Hebrews 6:18

In the emergency room, I remember watching the second hand of the clock tick, tick, tick — moment by moment. That’s how I had to live. One breath, one prayer, one heartbeat at a time. I learned to take every thought captive, to destroy strongholds, to wait patiently for God to act.

He had not forgotten me. I was still in the potter’s hands.

This was not the end. It was a breaking — but not a final one.

The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was still writing the next chapter.

And I would be ready.

Needless to say, I went from a life of service to a life of emptiness.

In Greenville, North Carolina — a small town with a big feel — I had built a medical practice that touched more than 16,000 lives. I couldn’t walk into a store, pump gas, or go through a drive-thru without bumping into a former patient. The support I received from them during this season was overwhelming.

The hugs I received in parking lots… the kind words whispered down grocery store aisles… the moments shared in quiet corners of our community — they were lifelines. They held me up when everything else had collapsed.

The shoe was now on the other foot. Where once I had risen before the sun, arriving at the office by 4:30 a.m. to prepare for whatever the day would bring, I now found myself still and broken. Once, I comforted others — now they comforted me. What I had poured into them over the years was flowing back in return.

These were friendships forged in the exam rooms but now proven in the shadows of loss. They endured through the storm, through the dark clouds that had gathered and refused to lift. It reminded me of the verse about building our foundations on the rock and not on the sand:

“The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.” – Matthew 7:25

My Rock was — and always had been — Jesus Christ. He was my fortress, my high tower, my strength. He was my place of safety and protection.

God was giving me, as He once gave David, a wide space. Time to breathe. Time to heal. Time to wait.

The reactive depression I experienced during this season was new to me. I had never known that kind of emotional weight. So I turned to the only place I knew would anchor me — the Bible.

David was a man acquainted with sorrow. So were Moses and Elijah. Many of the men and women listed in Hebrews 11 — that great chapter of faith — were no strangers to despair. They didn’t hide from it. They walked through it. And so would I.

I resolved to feel this experience with all my might — not to numb it, not to rush it, but to endure it. As in all things, I wanted to do this as unto the Lord.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” – Colossians 3:23

I remembered where I was on that dark day — September 11, 2001. I was in labor and delivery, sitting on the edge of a maternity bed, watching the towers fall in ashes. The weight of death hung thick in the air. But shortly afterward, I delivered a beautiful baby boy.

When I heard his first cry, I felt a paradox that pierced my soul. In the same breath that mourned tremendous loss, I also welcomed new life. That moment, like so many others, reminded me of why I had chosen this path in the first place.

I remembered being five years old. Watching my grandfather suffer a heart attack. Just a few days later, he was gone. I remember the tears. The helplessness. The ache.

And I remember what was born in me in that moment — the desire to keep that kind of pain from others. As best as I could.

I knew I wasn’t God. I couldn’t prevent death. But I could fight for life. I could offer the kind of care that honored the sacredness of every heartbeat. I could point people toward a more abundant and healthy life.

That calling hadn’t changed — even in my waiting.

God hadn’t changed.

This season was part of the journey.

And He was still with me.

In this quiet space of waiting, I reflected on Jesus Christ in His own moment of anguish. When offered wine mixed with myrrh — a morphine derivative — He refused it. He chose to feel the full weight of our sins. He didn’t take shortcuts. He didn’t flinch. He faced His mission with all His heart, all His soul, and all His might — for me, and for you.

Luke gives us a glimpse into the intensity of His agony — how, under such stress, He sweat blood. The medical term is hematohidrosis, and it is exceedingly rare. But it happened. And it happened to my Savior.

And so, if I had to be here — in this wilderness, in this sorrow — I resolved to be here fully. To learn from it. To grow through it. To trust that all things, even these, were working together for good.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” – Romans 8:28

And I do love Him — with all my heart.

As I prayed for guidance — for God to light up my path — I began to reflect on everything I had been through. Not just the pain of loss, but the purpose in service. The long hours. The sacrifices. The moments that defined me.

I’ve been sneezed on, coughed on, pooped on, and bled on — but each of those moments came with a reward. The reward of honoring my commitment to help others live a happier, healthier, and longer life — as much as it was within my power to do.

But ultimately, it was never my power.

Many of my patients may not have realized it, but I always approached their care with one truth in mind: God is our Healer — Jehovah-Rapha. By His stripes, we are healed. I am merely a tool in His very capable hands. Whether or not a patient left with a prescription, they always left with a silent prayer lifted on their behalf. I carried them before the throne of grace.

In Revelation 20:6, we’re told that those who take part in the first resurrection are “blessed and holy” and will reign with Christ as priests of God for a thousand years. So interceding for others — lifting them in prayer — is more than compassion. It’s training for the role we will play in eternity, just as our High Priest intercedes for us today.

This mindset shaped everything I did — including how I responded during the earliest days of COVID-19.

Insurance companies rushed to assign ICD-9 and ICD-10 codes for telemedicine. But I knew in my heart I couldn’t serve my patients from behind a screen. My duty required presence. Integrity demanded it.

So, after a long and heartfelt conversation with my wife, I made a decision: I would see my patients — in person — even if it meant examining them in my parking lot. And I did.

Day after day, I put on my stethoscope, said my goodbyes to the woman I love, and stepped outside. Whether it rained, snowed, or scorched under the Carolina sun, I was there — in between parked cars, air conditioners humming, heat radiating from the asphalt. Because being a doctor isn’t just my occupation. It’s who I am.

I trusted God with my life because He alone holds the power over life and death. That truth freed me to do what I was called to do.

I was the only physician in Greenville prescribing early outpatient treatments for COVID-19 with Ivermectin and Hydroxychloroquine. I read the studies. I examined the data. The science was available to anyone who wanted it. But I had to put politics aside and put patients first.

Pharmacists began calling. First individuals, then entire chains. They refused to fill the prescriptions. So I found the one local pharmacy that would — and sent every patient there.

All of this led me to a decision that had been brewing for years. It was time to build something different. Something better.

A medical model that saw patients as individuals — not billing codes.

A model that didn’t answer to insurance companies, but to the oath I made and the God who watches over me.

I decided to open a Concierge medical practice. One that removed the barriers of bureaucracy and allowed me to serve each patient according to their unique needs. Because we are not all the same. We are individuals, created in the image and likeness of our Creator.

Insurance companies set generic guidelines. Men get their colonoscopies at 45. But what if a man has a family history of colon cancer? What if he’s high risk? Why should he have to wait?

They mandate cholesterol medication for diabetics, regardless of their numbers. But why? If my patient’s cholesterol is in a good range, why expose them to the potential side effects of a harsh drug? Why spend money unnecessarily?

So I asked myself: what if, for the same price someone pays a landscaper each month, or the cost of DoorDash twice a week, they could have their own personal doctor?

A physician who knew them. Who had real-world experience. Who was tried, tested, and proven.

And so, Concierge Family Care was born. A smaller patient pool. A deeper connection. And a renewed sense of calling.

This was the resurrection. Not just of a practice.

But of a purpose.

This time of year is all about new beginnings. Trees budding. Flowers blooming. It’s springtime.

It’s also the Passover season — a time during the Days of Unleavened Bread when we do our spring cleaning and remove the leaven. And this year, I’m doing the same. I’m getting rid of the insurance companies.

But the true significance of this season is resurrection.

God saw fit that it would be at this exact time of the year that this new medical practice — His medical practice — would be planted, take root, and begin to grow.

It was on the last day of Unleavened Bread that Moses led the Israelites through the parted Red Sea. God parted my Red Sea. I am not to turn to the left or to the right, but to go forward.

Moses told the Israelites two things that night: to stay calm and stand still. He was half right.

Because God told Moses something greater: “Tell the people to go forward.” To take those first bold steps toward the Promised Land.

It was also during this same season that the walls of Jericho came crashing down.

A very fitting time of year indeed.

The Bible tells us, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). It’s a question that echoes through the ages, and one that has become a firm foundation in my heart.

Everyone knows the story of Job — a man whose life was stripped bare by suffering, only to be restored by a God who never abandoned him. But what often goes overlooked is that God didn’t just restore Job’s possessions. He restored his character. He refined him.

In the first chapter of Job, we read: “There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil.” (Job 1:1)

But at the end of the book, after Job had walked through the fire, he says to God:

“I know that You can do all things, and that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted.” (Job 42:2)

It’s as if Job was saying, “I had heard of You before… but now I know You.” Not by hearsay, but by experience.

I hope I can say the same.

God has allowed me to walk with Him for these past 64 years. I hope that walk reflects what we are told in Micah 6:8:

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”

If there’s a legacy I want to leave behind — for my patients, my children, my grandchildren, and anyone who takes the time to read this — it is that.

Do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with God.

My life has not been without hardship. But through every high and low, I have come to understand that God is faithful. That He refines. That He restores. That He sees every tear, hears every prayer, and honors those who trust in Him.

So to all of you — whether you’re a former patient, a fellow physician, a family member, or a friend — thank you. Thank you for walking part of this journey with me. Thank you for trusting me, encouraging me, and praying for me.

I commit to you that I will continue to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly before you and before our God.

This is my legacy.

And may it always point back to Him.

Don’t forget about Mrs. Job.

Most people likely recall her only for saying, “Curse God and die!” (Job 2:9). Job’s wife is often reduced to this one harsh statement. But can we really define a person by a single moment of anguish?

While most focus on Job’s trials, it’s important to remember — she lost everything too:

• She lost all ten of her children (Job 1:18-19).

• She lost her home and wealth (Job 1:13-17).

• She lost her social standing, going from a respected wife of an honored man to nothing.

• She watched her husband waste away in front of her, covered in painful sores (Job 2:7-8).

• She lost her security and stability.

She is only directly mentioned once in scripture, yet her presence is a quiet thread woven throughout Job’s suffering. We don’t know her full story — but we can understand her pain. And perhaps that’s why God allowed her to remain when everything else was taken.

Proverbs 18:22 says, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord.” Proverbs 12:4 describes a good wife as “a crown to her husband.” Job sat among the elders at the gate — a place of honor and leadership (Job 29:7-8). His wife would have been seen as his crown, his partner in wisdom and dignity.

And so, in the same breath, I want to honor my wife — Doreen.

To my wife of over 40 years — thank you. You have always been there for me.

You are indeed a gift from God. From moving our family across the ocean to living in the hot tropics of Grenada… from homeschooling our children to making the best of the worst… from taking nothing and making it something — you have shown a grace, strength, and faith that humbles me.

Thank you, Doreen. I love you very much. It has been my highest honor to have you as my partner on this journey.

“The woman was made of a rib out of the side of Adam; not made out of his head to rule over him, nor out of his feet to be trampled upon by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected, and near his heart to be beloved.”

You have always been at my side — and always will be.

To anyone reading this: cherish the ones who walk beside you. The unseen heroes. The quiet strength behind the visible story. They are the living proof that God surrounds us with help, love, and favor — even in the darkest of times.

Amen.