The Night We Decided to Sell Everything And Trust God (And Why I Almost Said No)

I was going to say no.

I'd already rehearsed it in my head—logical, pastor-approved reasons why selling the house didn't make sense right now. Maybe next year. Maybe when the kids were older. Maybe when we had more saved.

But then Erin looked at me, and I knew.

Tonight was the night God was calling my bluff.

The Couch Conversation

There we sat, on the couch, in the middle of a remodeling project I hadn't finished yet, legitimately considering selling our house.

Erin and I had our nightly ritual—tea, devotional, and a few quiet moments after the kids were finally in bed. We'd just finished reading, and somehow, in the silence that followed, we both knew.

It was time.

Erin had been convinced for months—years even. She'd been praying about it, sensing God was calling us to something bigger. For more than a year she'd made these off-the-cuff comments about the house being too big, living on the road, racing all the time, caring for families. She even sold most of what we had in the basement in eager anticipation of what God might be doing.

But me? I was honestly just buying time, thinking she would ride this train to the end and move on to something else.

What We'd Be Leaving Behind

I had my man cave-style garage. A television on every floor. A master suite bigger than my first apartment. A lawn the neighbors envied. Two brand new cars in the driveway. A quiet street. The best neighbors. A house only a few years old, perched up on a little hill at the top of the cul-de-sac.

It truly was the picture I had in mind of what family life would look like.

I had it. Why would I give it up?

As someone in "professional" ministry, I had always considered my life to be "on mission." So what need would I have to sell everything and take an unnecessary leap of faith? Why would I say goodbye to everything I'd worked—with God's help—so hard to build?

I just couldn't see it.

The Two Conversations That Changed Everything

Looking back, I can see that God was preparing us. And He used two critical conversations to do show me.

The first came just months prior in North Carolina. We met Donny Floyd, the chaplain at Hendrick Motorsports—the most successful motorsports franchise in modern history. We explained how we'd landed in racing, Eli's passion, and our unrelenting desire to reach our racing community with the gospel.

Up to that point, so many people we knew—including our family—either didn't fully understand what we were aiming to do, or simply didn't believe it had any legs to stand on.

But Donny's reaction was different. He was filled with enthusiasm and excitement—complete affirmation for the mission at hand. It was the first time I left a conversation about our future encouraged—fired up even—and ready to take the next step.

The second conversation came during a lunch with a notable faith leader in our community. As I explained our vision, I could see in his eyes that his mind and heart were tracking with me. He was genuinely thrilled that we were willing to take on this mission—to take a passion and put Jesus at the center of it.

Then he held his hands out over the table and said something I've never forgotten.

"God's desire for His people is to always live open-handed. Don't hold on too tight because we can either willingly surrender to Him, or He can pry it from our clenched fists. Which is more painful to experience?"

In that moment, I didn't fully appreciate what he was trying to teach me. I simply nodded, paid the bill, and went about the rest of my day.

But that conversation has played over and over in my head for more than a year. I don't believe I will ever forget it.

The Question I Couldn't Escape

Out of all the stuff I had accumulated, the life I had built, the career, the kids, the whole package—was I living open-handed? Willing to surrender any of it—all of it—for His plan and purpose?

That was the question hanging in the air that night on the couch.

We knew that to simultaneously race for wins and live on mission for the gospel inside our racing community meant we had to commit to believing that our presence had to be about more than just racing. It had to be about His mission, His purpose, and His plan and not our comfort.

Could we trust that God's mission for us was better than the comfortable life we'd built? Could we trust Him enough to say yes to something that would cost us everything we'd worked for?

The Last Look and Full Trust In God

We didn't walk through the house one last time.

We didn't say goodbye to the rooms or reminisce about memories or have some emotional final moment. We just took one last look. Snapped a few pictures in front of the house with the kids. Got in the car.

And left for the next race.

I watched the house disappear in the rearview mirror and wondered if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Because that's what trust looks like sometimes. Not a grand, cinematic moment. Just a choice to keep moving forward even when everything in you wants to stay.

That moment changed everything. Not because it was easy. Not because it made sense. But because we learned something about trust that most Christians never experience.

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