Since 2017, I estimate that I’ve worked with over 3,500 dogs and twice, if not three times, as many people. That’s also about how long I’ve been clean and sober from alcohol and abusing Xanax. I wasn’t drinking every day, but on bad days, I’d take 4-5 Xanax and down a full bottle of Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey. Yet, these past years have been the most meaningful of my 52 on this earth—not because of what I’ve accomplished, but because of how much I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to love and help others.
My rock bottom came on June 17, 2017, at my sister-in-law’s wedding at Heritage Hills in York, PA. Ironically, a buddy and I handled security at Knickers Pub there, but that night, I was anything but in control. Social anxiety had always been a struggle for me—unless I was in a professional role, like a police officer or bouncer. This wedding, however, left me feeling exposed. So, I “pre-gamed” by taking six 20mg Xanax and chasing them with a flask of Tullamore Dew. That got me through the ceremony. Thirty minutes into the reception, I had personally finished another bottle and a half of Jameson, generously supplied by the staff. I blacked out. My son, Frank, and my nephew, Denny, carried me to the car. I’m told I threw up on the ride home—with the window up.
The next morning, I woke up naked in bed, remembering little. I showered, got dressed, and walked into the living room, where I was met with my daughter Emilie’s heartbreak. At 15, with the mind of a 7-year-old (she is special needs), she was devastated. She called me a “drunk addict” and told me she never got to dance at Aunt Kimmy’s wedding because Mommy had to take me home. My wife was in the wedding party, and Emilie had been looking forward to dancing for months. That moment hit me like a hammer—God smacked.
I had already been attending Freedom Biker Church and Celebrate Recovery for PTSD, never once thinking I had a drug or alcohol problem. But in that instant, the scales fell from my eyes. It took breaking my baby girl’s heart to make me see the truth. Booze and pills hadn’t just numbed the bad—they had stolen the best things in life. Like watching my daughter, dressed to the nines, lighting up the dance floor with joy.
That was the day everything changed. I haven’t touched a drink or a pill since. I gave up nothing and gained everything.
The Events That Led to My PTSD and Addiction
On September 3, 1999, I was asleep, recovering from a midnight shift. At the time, I had been with the Aberdeen, MD Police Department for about 18 months. The phone rang—it was my wife, Lisa. She had just gone in for a routine checkup at her OB-GYN. She was 7.5 months pregnant with our second child, George F. Matheis III (Frank), but something was wrong. Her blood pressure was dangerously high, and the doctors decided to transfer her to Franklin Square Hospital for an emergency delivery.
Without thinking, I jumped into my take-home police car and rushed to the hospital. Time became a blur. Lisa’s condition worsened, and Frank’s vitals began to drop. The doctors made it clear—an emergency C-section was the only way to save them both. It was a chaotic and terrifying moment.
When Frank was born, I heard a nurse say, “He has a heart murmur, and I’m usually not good at hearing those.” Lisa was exhausted and placed on bed rest. I refused to leave her side, bringing in a sleeping bag to sleep on the floor next to her bed. Every few hours, the nurses woke me so I could go to the nursery to feed and change Frank.
After a few days of tests, the doctors diagnosed him with Tetralogy of Fallot, a congenital heart defect. They reassured us that if a child had to have a heart defect, this was one of the better ones to manage. The plan was to transfer him to the University of Maryland for specialized care, but the hospital was full. Instead, they sent him to Johns Hopkins—a decision that ultimately saved his life.
Lisa and I lived in the hospital, staying by his side day and night. We only left during the nurses’ shift changes. One day, when Frank seemed stable, my mom and I decided to go home for a quick shower. As we pulled into the parking garage, my pager went off—911 from Lisa.
We rushed back inside, where the doctors explained that Frank was deteriorating rapidly due to sepsis. We had two choices: attempt to place him on an ECMO (heart-lung bypass) machine, which he likely wouldn’t survive, or do nothing, which meant certain death. The decision was clear—we signed the paperwork.
As they prepared to take Frank to the OR, I removed my St. Michael’s Medal, the one my parents had given me when I graduated from the Baltimore Police Academy in 1997, and placed it beside him. Lisa and I laid our hands on him, prayed, and walked with the medical team to the elevator.
Everyone else stayed in the waiting room, but I needed to be alone with my Savior. I found the chapel, dropped to my knees, and, without feeling any physical sensation, prayed:
“Lord, I know his mother believes that he is hers first and Yours second, but I know that he is Yours, and we are only stewards of him. Whatever Your will is, we will always love him and follow You.”
When I stood up, an indescribable peace washed over me. I felt as light as air.
Returning to the waiting room, I found everyone else in tears, filled with fear—but I felt nothing but calm. Hours later, Dr. Redmond, a true Irishman, walked in with an update: Frank had survived and was doing well. My dad, a man of few words, looked at the doctor and said, “Doc, you know how they tell athletes they’re ‘the man’? You’re the man.” We all agreed.
Frank spent a total of 3.5 months in the hospital and underwent another open-heart surgery before finally coming home for good.
Looking back, I realize that if the University of Maryland had an available bed, Frank would have gone there—and they didn’t have an ECMO machine. He wouldn’t have made it. The Lord always knows what is best.
The Shooting
Sunday, February 6, 2000, was a cold, clear night with snow on the ground. I was covering a midnight shift for someone else. Things had calmed down a bit, and Frank was home.
At 12:50 AM, I sat in the parking lot at 53 E. Bel Air Ave, finishing my first cup of coffee when the radio crackled to life.
“Aberdeen-27.”
“27.”
“Respond to the Colonel’s Choice in reference to a man refusing to pay his bill.”
“27, 10-76.”
As other units acknowledged, dispatch updated us:
“Aberdeen units, be advised—the caller now states the suspect is 10-32 (man with a gun).”
When I arrived, Officer Mark Franklin was already there. The victim leaned against Mark’s car and told us that when the bartender followed the suspect out of the bar, the man pulled a gun and said, “Back off. I’m a deputy sheriff.”
Mark and I moved toward the back of the building. Officers Larry Wade, Cpl. Rick Denu, and Cpl. Jesse Stacy joined us. Denu and Stacy walked along a privacy fence about ten yards from the back wall of a brick motel, while Mark and I—both SWAT—hugged the wall. I kept my left hand on Mark’s right shoulder as we advanced.
Within seconds, we were all shouting, “10-32! Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”
The suspect crouched behind what I initially thought was a propane tank—later, I’d realize it was a water tank. In the bright moonlight reflecting off the snow, I could clearly see him pointing a Colt Python .357 Magnum at us.
Denu fired first. His shot struck the tank. I fired next, threading a bullet through the six-inch gap between the wall and the tank, striking the suspect. He took off into the woodline.
We scrambled back to our cars and sped toward Route 40 West. The radio crackled again:
“Shots fired! Signal 13!” (Officer needs assistance.)
As I pulled onto the shoulder, I could hear shots ringing out in the distance. Officer Wade had chased the suspect on foot. I popped my trunk, grabbed my shotgun, and racked in 00 buckshot.
Soon, five Aberdeen officers were joined by two Harford County Sheriff’s Deputies, one of them a K-9 handler. Someone—I’m still not sure who—made the call: we moved in, following the K-9 into the woods.
About 25 yards in, the K-9 handler, just ahead of me, suddenly spun left and yelled:
“Drop the gun!”
The dog had completely missed the suspect—wounded, lying on the ground just seven yards off the trail.
Gunfire erupted. The officers and deputies fired 9mm and .40 S&W rounds. I fired two shots of buckshot. The suspect’s gun hand dropped to the ground—then raised again. Another volley followed, including two more from me.
One of my buckshot pellets blew off his thumb, but the fatal shot came from another—piercing his clavicle, cutting through his descending aorta.
By now, every cop in the county had arrived. Overhead, Trooper 1, the Maryland State Police helicopter, circled with its spotlight trained on us.
Cpl. Denu approached the suspect and, using his legs, dragged him away from the gun before rolling him over. He pulled up the suspect’s shirt, bent his legs toward his chest—and that’s when we saw it.
“It’s a fucking pellet gun,” Denu muttered.
Everyone walked away, but I stayed—I knew someone had to hold the crime scene. So, there I stood, alone in the dark, as the suspect took his final, shallow, lifeless breaths.
I watched as Trooper 1 landed in the middle of Route 40.
Eventually, my sergeant—off duty but living just a few blocks away—showed up, having heard the gunfire. He walked down to relieve me. There is more to the shooting but that is all I can deal with right now.
My Journey into Canine Training: A Calling Beyond Myself
It all began in 2016 when my daughter, Elizabeth, made the bold decision to join the Navy after spending two years in nursing school at York College. We’ve always been close, and she understood that my battle with PTSD meant I would need support. That’s when she gifted me an Olde English Bulldogge puppy named Odin. My goal was to train him as my PTSD service dog.
As a member of the American Legion Riders Post 543, I was introduced to Bob Fink, the trainer for Veteran Service Canines. Bob was a proud Vietnam veteran and a retired Special Operations Warden (K-9) from York County Prison. Within a few months, he asked if I wanted to be his apprentice. I jumped at the opportunity. Bob quickly became not only a mentor but a father figure to me.
For years, I had dreamed of being part of a K-9 unit. Being passed over for that role was one of the biggest reasons I retired from law enforcement. The Veteran Service Canines program only accepted veterans, and while Bob and I were both retired law enforcement, we didn’t agree with that limitation. On top of that, the people running the organization rarely showed up, leaving Bob and me to carry the load. Without proper support, things began to fall apart, and I eventually stepped away.
The following year, Bob and I launched Cover Six Canines as a ministry of Freedom Biker Church York. What started as a small initiative has since grown into a full-fledged 501(c)(3) nonprofit.
The Birth of My Canine Salvation (MCS)
By this time, I had already started training dogs on my own. While covering a training session for Bob one day at Veteran Service Canines, I found myself alone at the facility when a Vietnam veteran named Don arrived with his Lab puppy, Sarge. Since Bob wasn’t there, I stepped in to help. After an hour of watching me work with Sarge, Don asked if I would consider training him outside the program—and he wanted to pay me.
That moment marked the start of My Canine Salvation (MCS)—the first time I officially trained a dog under my own name.
Through my experience with Veteran Service Canines, I spent hundreds of hours observing veterans with disabilities working with their dogs. I noticed how handlers struggled and how long it took for dogs to perform even the simplest tasks. The more I observed, the more I realized the problem was right in front of me: too much talking and too many treats were blocking communication and focus.
I decided to strip all of that away while training Odin, and he thrived. After all, you don’t see many Olde English Bulldogges as service dogs. The key to success was studying how dogs naturally communicate. I broke it down into three core elements:
- Eye contact
- Movement
- Touch
This became the foundation of Focused-Based Canine Training.
Learning from the Dog World
Instead of relying solely on books and traditional training methods, I immersed myself in the world of dogs—meeting and working with dogs of all breeds, ages, and backgrounds. More importantly, I paid close attention to how Odin reacted to them.
I quickly realized that differences between dog breeds are often exaggerated so trainers can specialize in breeds they’re comfortable with. But I don’t judge dogs by their breed, size, or history—I judge them by how they interact with me. I meet them where they are, without holding their past against them.
People tend to judge dogs by the worst thing they’ve ever done, usually an act of aggression that didn’t even involve physical contact. Meanwhile, in our own society, we let criminals commit horrific acts and give them second chances. A dog bites once and could be put down, but we allow people to harm others repeatedly without true accountability. The standards we hold dogs to are often higher than those we hold ourselves to.
A Calling, Not Just a Career
My formal training in canine work was minimal. Nobody lies about their inexperience, yet I was shocked then—as I am now—by how people react when they see me take a dog that has pulled on a leash for years and, within minutes, have them walking calmly on a loose lead without saying a word, using just one finger.
More importantly, I can hand that same dog back to their owner and they can do the same thing.
There’s no other explanation: this is a gift from God. I firmly believe the Lord blessed me with the ability to work with dogs to heal and love people.
A simple walk with your dog—something free, easy, and accessible anywhere—can bring peace. Dogs don’t dwell on the past or worry about the future; they live in the moment. Dogs respond to stability with stability. When you consistently meet your dog’s needs, they learn to trust you completely. That trust brings peace and reduces the risk of overreaction that could lead to severe consequences.
When your dog has you, not much in the world can shake them. A calm, stable dog can influence other anxious dogs just by being present. The same principle applies to people: when you have someone to count on who has been where you are and made it through, it gives you hope.
Recovery isn’t complicated. As my recovery mentor Bob Allen founder of Life’s Beacon in York PA says, “Recovery is effectively changing the way life affects you”.
Why I’m Writing This
For a long time, I wrestled with whether or not to share this story. What if people read this, don’t believe in God, and decide not to hire me? How will I support my family? I realized that was the enemy talking. My gift is to be able to take something that can be a source of anxiety and use it to bring peace.
But I can’t stay silent any longer. I feel convicted to share the truth.
I’ve witnessed too many confirmations—too many moments of clarity, purpose, and divine intervention—to ignore. This journey isn’t just about training dogs. It’s about healing. It’s about purpose. And it’s about faith.
A Testimony of Healing and Purpose
First and foremost, I am a broken man—a sinner. Once a decorated police officer, I was forced into early retirement due to PTSD. In my struggle to survive, I turned to isolation, alcohol, and pills. My wife, Lisa, was left to raise our children—Elizabeth, Frank, and Emilie—on her own. Frank faced serious medical issues, and Emilie is intellectually disabled, legally blind, and legally deaf, and bi polar.
This is the testimony of how God used a dog named Odin to heal me and reveal my mission: helping others find healing through their dogs. If people believed their dogs were perfect, they would never call me. Just like people, no one seeks recovery until the pain outweighs the fear of getting help.
The first weekend I had Odin, I went to Shades Fest in Red Lion, where I ran into Aaron Smith, the Associate Pastor of Freedom Biker Church York. He invited me to check out the church, and after a few weeks, Pastor Jim Quoss asked me to lead the security team. Before long, I was attending Celebrate Recovery for PTSD. On June 18, 2017, I stopped drinking and taking pills. Then, on August 27, 2017, my entire family was baptized, accepting Jesus Christ as our Savior.
Today, I train dogs full-time. My son, Frank, is my fellow trainer and runs his own dog-sitting business. My wife, Lisa, manages the office, and Elizabeth (Sissy), now out of the Navy, is the VP of social media & Marketing. I have completed two Celebrate Recovery step studies and led a third. I served as the York Point of Contact for Broken Chains, a group for bikers in Celebrate Recovery. Most importantly, my relationship with Lisa and my children is fully restored. I have found the brotherhood I longed for in the police force—only now, it is in Christ. None of this is my doing; it is all His.
My Journey of Faith
My father was raised Catholic, and my mother had no religious background. When my grandfather died on my third birthday, my father—who had just finished high school, married my mother (who was only 17), and was drafted—became angry with God and stopped attending church. My grandmother, a devout believer, had always insisted he go, and she did the same with me when I was little.
As a child, I enjoyed church—CCD classes, being an altar boy—but even then, I sensed something was missing. I wanted my friends to experience what I loved, but I realized how out of place they felt in Catholic services. Looking back, I see that it was more cultural than relational—no one ever spoke about having a personal relationship with Jesus. I didn’t understand why priests had to wear elaborate vestments when Jesus didn’t. I remember feeling the Spirit moving in me and wanting to sing and move, but knowing that would be frowned upon.
When Lisa and I got engaged, we told my grandmother we were having a non-denominational wedding. She wished us well but said she wouldn’t attend unless it was in a Catholic church. That was hard—I was very close to her, and she had been instrumental in my childhood, making sure I could play sports, join scouts, and do other activities. Without much convincing, Lisa—whose only real exposure to faith had been attending Sunday school on a church bus—agreed to go through RCIA to become Catholic, and we were married in the church.
We tried to remain involved, especially after Elizabeth started CCD. But after Frank and Emilie were born, it became harder—Emilie’s unpredictable movements and sounds weren’t well received. We visited other churches but never found one that felt like home. That changed when we found Freedom Biker Church. For the first time, I heard the true Gospel. I learned about the Great Commission—that as believers, we are called to share the Word with the world.
Sometimes, God places a word on my heart for someone, urging me to reach out. When another voice creeps in, whispering, Don’t be weird. Don’t do it., I recognize it as the enemy trying to silence the living Word. The more he tries, the more I know I must share it.
Through Christ, I have found freedom. Through Him, I have been restored.
I understand now why everything happened the way it did.
Since childhood, I knew I was going to be a cop. I put everything into that dream. But in 2007, when the rug was pulled out from under me, I was shattered. I had worshipped being a cop—rather than the Lord and my family. And for the next ten years, I mourned the loss of my career. Then I got Odin.
When no human could reach me, the Lord used a dog. Through Odin, He showed me the unconditional love that comes from only two places—dogs and Jesus Christ.
Every morning, I submit to the Lord. I tell Him my desire is to serve Him, not myself. I pray that He puts me in the path of those who need to feel love—not just hear about Jesus, but truly feel Him.
In the spring of 2020, something overtook me. I didn’t recognize it at first, but eventually, I was consumed by a depression unlike anything I had ever known. For six months, I couldn’t sleep, battling the demon of suicide minute by minute. I was completely separated from God—I prayed, but I could not feel Him. I lost interest in everything. Even the love of my family felt distant. Elizabeth came home on emergency leave. I lost 60 pounds. Smiling felt impossible. The idea of training a dog, something I had always loved, made me nauseous. The spirit that had guided me with dogs was gone.
But deep down, I knew that, like electricity, God was there—even if I couldn’t feel Him. It was worse than my wife, family, or congregation ever realized. I was standing on the edge, ready to fall. Yet I kept praying.
Then, one day in October, Lisa was watching a friend’s baby. As she was heading out for a walk, she asked if I wanted to join them. I said no. But as she walked out the door, I remembered something I once heard: If you don’t feel like doing something, just say “4, 3, 2, 1” and stand up.
So I did.
I went on that walk. And when we got home, I was 100% cured. Not a little—completely. Like a light switch had flipped.
I posted on Facebook that day. The people from Freedom Biker Church were at Ocean City for Bike Week, and they all knew—I had been healed. Only Pastor Jim, his wife Jackie, my therapist Julie from Katallasso Family Clinic, and Lisa know the full details of that time. Well, them and the Lord.
Here’s what I learned: No matter how much you pray, God doesn’t move toward you—because He’s already there. You have to move toward Him. I had been trapped in a cell without bars. But the moment I reached out, His hand was there to lead me.
I also understood why the Lord allowed Satan to put me through that trial. First, to strengthen me for my mission—bringing people to Christ. Second, to teach me that when someone is at rock bottom, they often can’t reach out. That’s why we must stay in fellowship. We must truly know one another so that no Brother or Sister ever reaches that level of desperation alone.
Don’t wait for them to reach out. Reach in.
That realization led me to start the Iron Sharpens Iron men’s group at Freedom Biker Church, that met every Tuesday night at 7 at Freedom Biker Church. It was informal, unpolished, and a safe place for any Brother to find comfort, protection, and fellowship among men of God. No judgment—only grace, acceptance, and love. Unfortunately, in my absence it was coopted into another run of the mill bible study. Instead of men gathering around a fire keeping it real about their struggles and supporting each other is now “peopled up”. I created it as a place for men who were not yet ready to attend Celebrate Recovery or even attend church to be loved and supported.
Odin
What happened to me unfolded before the entire congregation over six months. The Sunday after I was healed, I stood before them to thank them for their prayers and to share the lessons the Lord had taught me.
Julie, my therapist, calls me Lazarus.
That season of my life was ten times worse than anything I had ever faced. But above all else, it was my greatest blessing. My life will never be the same.
A Message of Faith, Dogs, and Transformation
If you’re reading this and wondering if God is using me to speak to you, the answer is yes. No matter who you are or what you’ve done, the Lord is ready for you to come home. We all struggle with hurts, habits, and hang-ups, but not everyone is ready to do different to get different. If you are, I encourage you to find a Celebrate Recovery group near you. Throughout my own journey, I never missed a meeting. The program works if you work it.
If you ever need to talk, email me at mercop27@gmail.com.
More Than Dog Training
Most people who schedule an appointment with me don’t initially know about my mission. They call because their dog is causing them stress and anxiety, adding to everything else life throws at them. In a word, they are overwhelmed. But I take this opportunity to share something deeper.
When I arrive, I ask them to take me to a place where they normally relax. I encourage the entire family to sit down, breathe, and just be still—no talking, no touching, no eye contact with the dog. Within minutes, even the most hyper dogs begin to relax. When owners witness this shift without saying a word, they begin to understand the power of stillness.
Then, I put a lead on the dog and silently walk out the door. The dog follows. For the next 15–20 minutes, we walk in silence. The dog relaxes. Then, I hand the lead over to the owner, and they relax even more. By the time we return home, the dog is walking on a loose leash—no pulling, no stress. This is when many owners begin to weep. Not just cry—weep—because, for the first time, they truly see their dog for who they are inside. They realize their dog didn’t need force or frustration—just love and leadership.
Love is not just a feeling; it’s an action.
You are your dog’s Holy Spirit. The lead is your connection. Our lives are full of distractions, when we take our eyes off of Jesus we place tension on our lead. He doesn’t change, the harder we pull the more it hurts us. No matter how hard we pull, no matter what we have done when we focus on him, instead of the distractions of the world the lead is loose. The same thing goes for the dog. The biggest thing we get called to work with is reactivity to different things. As soon as the dog is shown how to avoid tension on the lead by focusing on the handler in spite of distractions in the environment they will choose to do so, and when they make mistakes (just like us, they will) as soon and their focus comes back on the handler everything is good again.
Recovery, Leadership & Trust
Recovery is an intentional, ongoing decision to choose how you respond to circumstances. You meet people where they are. You don’t expect them to use tools they’ve never had before. That is my approach to dog training. No shame, no guilt about what happened before. Asking for help is the first step.
Stress comes from being presented with a situation you either cannot control or don’t know how to handle. That’s the issue with unwanted dog behavior. When people don’t know what to do, they try harder—frustration builds. But the truth is: if you’re trying hard, you’re doing it wrong.
There are no bad dogs. Every behavior is a result of what people have done—or failed to do—for them. In a sense, they are all strays, just like us.
Many trainers rely on bending over, talking in a sweet voice, and giving treats to make dogs “like” them. But dogs don’t need a friend; they need a leader. I have the owner put the lead on—because whoever is being chased is in charge. Then they hand me the lead, and I lead the dog.
Your dog needs you to be like God—they need to have faith in you. They need to know that no matter what happens, you can handle it. You don’t build this trust through words—you build it through consistency of action. Some dogs resist at first—they pull, spin, even bite—but at some point, they realize that if they simply submit and take a step toward me, the tension disappears.
The more they see me remain unshakable, the more they realize they don’t have to focus on the world—they only need to focus on me. No tension. No stress. Sound familiar? This is exactly our need to fully submit and focus on Jesus Christ.
Life will always bring struggles, but He never changes. We fight, we resist, we stray—even when it brings us pain. But the moment we finally submit and let Him lead, the power of the Holy Spirit fills us with peace. When we fully accept the love and grace of Jesus Christ, there is nothing we cannot face with Him.
Divine Appointments
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been deeply intuitive. People open up to me in ways that still amaze me. Many times, our training sessions lead to prayer and healing. Here are just a few examples:
- A woman asked me to speak with her boyfriend, who struggled with addiction. His adult daughter—who had nearly two years clean from cocaine—was there as well. The mother confessed that after losing her husband, she would lock herself in her room and cry. Frank and I joined hands with the entire family and prayed. A dog brought me there.
- A woman canceled her appointment for the next day. I asked if she was free that day instead. Hesitantly, she agreed. I later learned she had canceled because her double mastectomy had been moved up. We worked with the dog, and then we prayed. A dog brought me there.
- Another woman was deeply distracted during our session. She was waiting for a call about her grandson, who was battling cancer. He was about to undergo an amputation, and the doctors didn’t expect him to survive. We prayed. Today, he is alive, thriving, and getting used to his prosthetic. A dog brought me there.
We have dozens of stories like this. We are so blessed by the people we meet.
A Love Like No Other
No matter how much trouble their dog causes, every single owner tells me how sweet their dog is and how much they love them—no matter what they’ve done. Sound familiar?
Sounds just like someone else I know—someone who loves you, no matter what.
I never push my beliefs on anyone. But what you cannot stop me from doing is caring about you and your dog. I’ve never met a person who didn’t appreciate being cared about. If I was talking to you and my Dad was standing next to me, wouldn’t I introduce him? That is how I feel about Jesus.
Life, Change & Trusting God
Lisa, my beautiful bride of 30 years, and I recently faced a major change.
In June 2023, she called me while I was at an appointment—something unusual. When I picked up, she said, “We just got a letter from the landlord. We have 30 days to move.”
We had been renting month-to-month, but our landlord wanted to rent to a friend. He extended the notice to 60 days, but the reality hit hard: we had to go.
We had always planned to move to Fort Worth, TX, to be near our daughter, Elizabeth, and her husband, DJ—but not until 2025. Finding a place to rent with five dogs and our loud, amazing Emilie was a challenge. Through a friend, we found a realtor, flew down, and applied for three homes.
God blessed us—we got the one we loved.
Moving cross-country was brutal, and a shady moving company strong-armed us for extra money just to get our things back. But after a long, three-day drive from York, PA, to Fort Worth, TX, we made it.
We’ve been here since August 26, 2023, and we love it. It took time to grow the business, but we are getting there. I still routinely travel back to your and see family,
Just recently we found, and awesome church called Burleson Bible Church. I checked out some Celebrate Recovery Groups here but found them to be lukewarm. I was blessed to find out about Men’s Alliance. Men gather around a fire, do a 30-minute CrossFit type workout and then have 30 minutes of devotion and fellowship. Currently I attend two different tribes. Cowtown is 0700 on Saturdays and Hilltop (at Burleson Bible Church) is on Tuesday nights at 1930. I am also blessed to have an amazing cigar show called Paladin Cigars owned by two Brothers who are believers. We have a Men’s Cigar Bible Study every other Sunday night that is well attended. To say that I love Texas and what the Lord is doing in my life here would be an understatement. I cannot wait to see what the future holds.
And remember—maybe there’s a reason “dog” spelled backward is “God“