Eight years ago, death came close enough to touch. I had a saddle pulmonary embolism—the kind that usually ends the story. My lungs were packed with clots. My breath was stolen. Two doctors told me I could have died at any moment. They didn’t mean it dramatically. They meant it clinically. The fact that I was still alive surprised them.

I was lying in the cardiac ICU at University Hospital in Greeley, Colorado. Machines were breathing for me. Oxygen was doing what my body couldn’t. My lungs were damaged. My life was dangling. And I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t even afraid. I was too sick to understand how close the valley really was. But God knew. And He pulled me back.

Looking back, I now know exactly where I was.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4).

I didn’t read that verse in that room. I lived it.

Death was not theoretical. It was present, heavy, and near. Doctors spoke carefully because there was no safe way to speak boldly. The odds were not good, and everyone knew it, whether they said it out loud or not. God let me look over the edge. Not in a dramatic way. Not with visions or voices. Just the quiet weight of knowing this could end at any moment. The shadow was real.

And then He pulled me back.

Not because I earned it. Not because I was strong. Simply because He is.

The valley did not disappear. The damage did not vanish overnight. Pain did not politely leave. But death lost its grip. I walked out of that hospital breathing on what felt like borrowed time, which I later understood was not borrowed at all. It was God’s time.

Ever since then, I knew God had spared me for a reason. I did not understand it all right away, but I knew it was not an accident.

I did not start writing until about two years ago. It was like something finally broke loose in me. The words started coming, and they have not stopped.

And my body has not been the same since that day. After the blood clots, trouble started stacking up. Chronic pain and fatigue followed. Doctors can name things, but a label does not change the daily fight.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, fibromyalgia became part of that fight. Some days my lungs still ache. Some days breathing takes effort. My body remembers the cost, even when I would rather forget it. But my soul remembers something else entirely.

I was spared, and Scripture does not give me permission to guess. I know this much. Not everyone is spared when death gets that close. Some walk through the same valley and do not walk back out. This was not a reward. It was mercy. And mercy, by its very nature, is undeserved.

God let me live without explanation, and what followed was not entitlement but service. I was not given comfort as a reward. I was pressed into obedience, and for that reason these verses have always carried special weight for me.

“I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has strengthened me, because He considered me faithful, putting me into service” (1 Timothy 1:12).

“For if I preach the gospel, I have nothing to boast about, for I am under compulsion; for woe to me if I do not preach the gospel” (1 Corinthians 9:16).

I am not just a survivor. I am a witness.

David did not say, “Though I sprint through the valley.” He said, “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Walking is slow. Walking is deliberate. Walking is what you do when strength is limited and the path is uncertain. That is how faith moves when death is close. One step, then another, with no guarantees except the Shepherd beside you.

Scripture never promises that the valley will be avoided. It promises that God will not leave His own in it. “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). That was not written for decoration. It was written for places like hospital rooms and long nights where machines hum and answers are scarce.

God let me live. So I write. Not for fame. Not for comfort. Not to impress the Church. I write because there are people camped at the edge of the valley, pretending it is safe, mistaking shadow for shelter.

I have seen the edge. I have heard death knocking at my door. And I am still here to say this plainly. The Shepherd does not leave His sheep. Not in the dark. Not in the ICU. Not when death gets close. Not ever.

“The Lord will accomplish what concerns me; Your lovingkindness, O Lord, is everlasting; do not forsake the works of Your hands” (Psalm 138:8).