I’m having surgery.

I’m having surgery.

I’m losing a part of me and couldn’t be more excited.

I'm about to have major surgery. In fact, I'm losing a kidney. I have two, we all do. But we only need one. By the end of October, that will be my reality. And I couldn't be more excited about it. Here's the story of why. A story I'm going to ask you to be a part of at the end.

This one is a little longer, but I think you'll see it's worth it.

***

The beginning

Two years seems like forever ago. And in COVID years, two years ago is about 20. Way back then, I started a journey that most of you aren't familiar with. And even if you are, you haven't heard all these details. That journey involves donating my kidney to someone I have never met. A husband. A father of five. A family man. A fellow human.

That man's name is Ken. How did I get to this point? How did I find out about Ken? Well, that's just one of the many fascinating parts of this story. 

It started on December 7, 2018. That's when my dad put out a plea on Facebook. He had a friend, a woman named Kandy, who needed a kidney transplant. She was going downhill fast and they were looking for donors. It caught my eye. I had lived through that nightmare as a kid. After my parents divorced my step-dad's kidneys failed. It got so bad he needed dialysis and ultimately was put on the transplant list. Lucky for him, his sister got tested, was a match, and ended up becoming his donor. Because of her act of sacrifice, his life was saved. 

That always stuck with me. As a Christian, it stood out to me as a tangible example of what Christ did for us. And it came flooding back as I read my dad's post. So without talking to my wife (not recommended, by the way), I signed up to be tested. And much to my surprise, I began passing all the screenings and tests. And with each passing milestone I found myself getting more and more excited. I knew Kandy wanted this, but I was surprised at how much I did, too.

I started praying a simple prayer: "God as long as you keep opening doors, I'll keep walking through them." Doors kept opening, so I kept walking.

Eventually, though, I walked right into a closed door.

A couple months into the process, I got the news. Apparently, I wasn't the only one being tested as a possible donor and, at the last minute, the person ahead of me was confirmed to be a match for something called a "swap." A swap is where donors who may not be a match for their actual recipient swap for recipients they do match. (It's a little complicated to explain, but it's pretty neat. This details it better than I can.)

I was no longer needed. And while I was excited for Kandy, I also oddly took it kinda hard. I didn't realize how much I actually wanted to donate, to help, to be able to give back. To be able to do something my kids would one day be proud of. To live out my faith in such a real, practical way. In fact, in the days after I got the news I became depressed. The transplant had become this sort of mountain that once I started climbing it it began changing my perspective on things. The more I climbed the better the view. And I wanted to go higher, to see more, to look over the horizon — only to have the climb cancelled abruptly. 

(Me and my initial recipient, Kandy. I happened to be in Atlanta the week she had her transplant and was able to visit her in the hospital.)

As I was still sorting through those feelings, I got the text. 

It was from Kandy. She had recently been contacted by a couple that was desperately searching for a donor. The husband's kidneys were failing and his health was declining rapidly.  All their friends and family had been tested and no one was a match. They were running out of options. Kandy asked me if I was still willing to donate, and if so if she could put is in touch.

"Absolutely," I said. 

She gave me the wife's number and told me her name was Debra. Her husband? Ken.
 

The middle

Debra and I quickly began texting and almost immediately the doors started opening back up. I got more tests, and at every turn the news was good. Once again, I just kept walking. Until finally, in the spring of 2019, I got confirmation that I was indeed a match for Ken. I was elated. But if I was excited, you can only imagine how ecstatic Ken and Debra were. 

(The first ever conversation Debra and I had.)

That excitement, though, didn't last long.

As we were beginning to finalize the transplant, Ken's health took a turn for the worst. The diabetes at the center of his kidney disease began ravaging his body even more. He had sores on his feet that refused to heal. Over the course of a few months, they got worse. And worse. And worse. The doctors had to amputate his toes. Then his feet. And finally, it got so bad that they had to amputate both of his legs below the knee. He was devastated. He started losing hope that he would ever be healthy enough for a transplant. Debra? She kept praying.

(Ken and Debra.)

(Ken learning to walk again after having both of his legs amputated.)

The prayers worked. This spring, over a year after we started talking and after months of bad news, Ken finally got some good news: His sores had healed, his health was better, and the doctors told him he was ready for the transplant. 

There was just one problem: I wasn't.

See, during the year Ken was getting healthier, I was doing the opposite. While I had lost a bunch a weight in preparation for the surgery, I had put it all back on...and then some. The transplant team gave me strict orders: Lose 20 pounds or no surgery. So I went to work.

And failed.

From April to July I lost five pounds. Five measly pounds. I was frustrated. I was mad. I was ashamed. So I did something drastic: I got in touch with a personal trainer. He kicked my butt. I kicked my butt. I started lifting weights and running 3.5 miles three times a week. I started eating right and sleeping more. And it worked. From July 4th to today I've lost over 20 pounds. And on October 14th, I'll weigh even less. That's because that's when I'll donate my right kidney to Ken. I cleared the final hurdle on Thursday: my doctor confirmed my weight loss and signed off on the surgery. The transplant has been scheduled!

(Now 20+ pounds lighter, I'm able to donate again!)

The end

So why am I doing this? I've been asked that a lot.

There are a few reasons. For starters, my step-dad unexpectedly died in April of a massive stroke. But because of his sister's kidney donation, we got 25 extra years with him. Her sacrifice pushed back his funeral by nearly three decades. That's incredible to think about.

There's also my little niece who, shortly after being born with a deformed heart, received a heart transplant and is now not just alive but thriving because of it. A transplant gave her new life, just like it did my step-dad.

Those are good reasons, I think. But they aren't the biggest ones. No, the biggest reason I'm doing this is because I feel like God is telling me I should. I've prayed about it, I've sought counsel on it, I've spent hours thinking about it, and every time I arrive at the same conclusion: this is just supposed to be a part of my story. I don't fully know why, but I just know it to be true. I can't shake it. Has that ever happened to you?

And I couldn't be more excited. 
 

Your part in the story

So that brings me to you. At the beginning of this I told you I was going to invite you to become a part of this story, too. Here's what I mean.

I live in Dallas. Ken and Debra live in Mississippi. The surgery has to take place in New Orleans because it's the closest transplant facility to where Ken lives. And while Ken's insurance covers the surgery and the medical care, the expenses to make the trip — the flights, the rental cars, the hotels — are unfortunately not a part of that coverage.

So I've started a GoFundMe to help cover those trip expenses. It's an opportunity for you to join in the story. A story that, quite frankly, I think is really needed in this country right now. A story that I think is larger than us. A story that I believe God is orchestrating.

The goal? We're trying to raise $5,000. If the money doesn't come, we'll figure it out. God is big enough. But Ken has waited long enough for a kidney. It's time. It's time for a less chaotic life. It's time for his five boys to have a healthy dad. It's time for Debra to have a revitalized husband.

It's time finish this story. And if you'd like to help with that, here's a pen.