When Jesus says, "Go"

Our comfort zone is the first casualty

Kirk’s Note: In our book, Saving Samaria, Jenn and I point out that one of the key strategies to winning back our culture is to “Go.” To dare to step into new, sometimes uncomfortable territory. So, I give you Chapter 4 of Saving Samaria, my story of reluctantly hearing the call to Go.

Crossing the tracks

It was late 1990. As soon as the phone rang, I felt a nudge. I knew who it was before I even picked up. Bob, a trusted friend and mentor, was calling. And before he spoke a single word, my stomach tightened. He was only asking me out for lunch, nothing more than a meal at Chuck’s Bar-B-Q, a beloved hole-in-the-wall where the sweet tea flows freely and the pulled pork is the stuff of legend. But I knew better. This would not be small talk over barbecue. This was a crossroads moment.

Bob was the director of our local pregnancy help center in Auburn, Alabama; a ministry dedicated to serving women and families facing unexpected pregnancies, offering life, hope and help. Bob was leaving to take on a regional leadership role in Birmingham, overseeing dozens of similar life-affirming centers. His move meant our local center needed a new director.

I had a sinking feeling this lunch invitation was to ask me to consider stepping into his role.

Just weeks earlier, at a Christmas party, Bob casually announced he was leaving. I was stunned. To me, Bob was already a legend. Without thinking, I turned to a friend, muttering, “Man, I’d hate to be the one who has to fill his shoes.”

Bob was the leader you don’t replace. Wise, steady, full of grace, respected by everyone. Step in behind someone like him? No thanks.

Knowing what he would likely ask, every part of me wanted to say no. I even started rehearsing excuses in my head. My life was good. Predictable. Comfortable. I had firmly planted myself on the side of the tracks I had always known, and I had no desire to cross into unfamiliar, uncomfortable territory, especially not a place that would ask more of me than I felt ready to give.

And yet, despite every logical reason to say no, I felt that unmistakable nudge. The quiet, persistent tug I wasn’t ready to accept, but couldn’t seem to shake. Was God calling me to something new?

In the days leading up to our lunch, I ran through every honest reason I could give to let him down gently and say, “This just isn’t for me.”

The front lines I didn’t expect

It wasn’t that I lacked conviction. Anyone who knew me would tell you I was staunchly pro-life (we’ll get into labels later)—not just in theory, but in action. For ten years, since I was just eighteen, I prayed earnestly for God to place me on the front lines of the life issue. And for much of my adult life, I thought I knew exactly where those front lines were—on the steps of the Supreme Court, in the halls of Congress, or in our state capitol building in Montgomery.

So, I marched. I campaigned. I talked. Oh, how I talked. I made sure people knew where I stood and where they should stand too. I voted, volunteered, planted political yard signs, and even helped draft speeches for candidates who aligned with my convictions. I was outspoken, committed, and confident that I was doing my part.

I was pro-life enough. What was the problem?

The problem was, this role was a long way from Washington or Montgomery, and I don’t just mean miles on a map. At our local pregnancy help ministry, no one would televise debates, and no one would hold policy summits. No microphones. No podiums. No articles to write or crowds to energize. Saying yes to this job meant stepping away from the limelight of public policy and into something entirely different, something quieter, more personal, and far more vulnerable.

Taking on this role meant sitting across from real people—young women and men in crisis, often overwhelmed and afraid. It meant entering their stories, not to argue, not to persuade, but simply to listen. To see them. To walk beside them in the hardest moments of their lives.

And that’s what scared me the most. I wasn’t just avoiding the job; I was avoiding what it would ask of me.

For so long, I assumed the frontlines were about visibility and influence. I believed they were found in legislative chambers and political campaigns. But what if the actual frontlines weren’t public at all? What if we found these lines in quiet rooms and tear-filled conversations? What if they looked less like rallies and more like sitting with someone whose world was falling apart?

That thought shook me.

It’s easy to fight for a cause when you don’t have to look it in the eyes. It’s easy to stand on principle when the pain is someone else’s. But when it becomes personal—when the issue has a name, a face, and a heartbreaking story, it changes everything.

A country club guy doesn’t belong here

I knew the work would be personal and uncomfortable, but there was another layer to my hesitation, one I didn’t say out loud. It wasn’t just the nature of the work that gave me pause. It was me. I didn’t look like someone who belonged in that world. I didn’t sound like someone who could lead in that space. In fact, everything about my background seemed to disqualify me from what God was asking me to do.

I didn’t fit the profile of a ministry leader, not even close. Bob was an ordained pastor, steady and seasoned. Me? My ministry résumé? Three years helping a crew wrangle two-year-olds in Sunday school—that was about it.

I had no ministry credentials. No experience walking with hurting people or stepping into someone’s crisis. Growing up, my world was fairways and putting greens. Since I was ten, golf shaped my life. I spent nearly every day at the country club—from practically daybreak until sunset. It wasn’t just where I played; it was where I grew up, made friends, and learned how the world worked.

The club was only ten minutes from our house, and it might as well have been a world away from the ministry Bob was inviting me to. My closest friends were golfers like me—same neighborhoods, same routines, same worldview. After school, we weren’t out finding trouble; we were on the course, grinding away on our short games. Golf may have become an idol for us, but in a way, it also kept us grounded and focused.

I played on the golf team at Auburn University, then turned professional to see if I could make a living at the game. I quickly learned that a lot of players were better than me, and when my brief professional golf career ended, I transitioned into the business world, selling office products, machines, and furniture. I made a good living, working with university administrators, business leaders, and medical professionals, many of them members of the very golf club where I spent my youth. I was comfortable in this space, navigating sales meetings and negotiating contracts.

I wouldn’t trade my upbringing or business experience for anything. It prepared me for so much. But how in the world was I supposed to connect with a single mom struggling to provide for her three kids? Or a soon-to-be father who had never met his own dad and was living on the streets?

And beyond all this, I was only 28 years old. I was neither seasoned nor experienced. I wasn’t remotely qualified.

I had every reason to look Bob in the eye, shake my head, and say, “This is not for me.” This ministry world felt like the other side of the tracks, and I wasn’t sure I could understand or connect with anyone there.

In hindsight, I wasn’t just stepping into a new role; I was crossing those tracks. Leaving the known for the unknown. Trading what felt safe for what God was asking.

Stepping into a Samaria of the unknown

God was asking me to engage in a Samaria I didn’t know or understand, and it shook me.

On the human life issue, I knew the talking points. I could articulate my position and debate it with clarity. I had the statistics. I studied the arguments. I could passionately defend my convictions.

But God wasn’t calling me to win debates. He was calling me to step across a border into a world where this issue wasn’t theoretical; it was deeply personal.

And the scariest part? There was no roadmap or master plan. No script to follow. I did not know who would walk through our doors on any given day or what stories they would bring with them.

On the other side of the tracks, in my new Samaria, I would meet a young woman who told me her boyfriend would kill her if she gave birth to the child she carried. When I gently asked her to explain, she pointed to her dislocated eye. “This is what happened the last time,” she said.

I would sit across from a girl carrying a baby her family would never accept—because the child wouldn’t be the “right” color.

I would listen to the frantic voices of parents warning that if their daughter didn’t end her pregnancy, they would pull all financial support for her college education.

And in this Samaria, I would have an unforgettable conversation with a young woman who had already been to an abortion clinic. She would tell me how they forced her to take Valium before signing the consent forms. How she felt like a faceless number, pushed from one station to another until it was over. And how every day since, she stared at a calendar where she once circled her lost child’s due date.

There’s no class to prepare you for moments like this. No Pro-Life 101. No manual with the perfect response for every impossible situation.

But despite the fear, I went to lunch with Bob. And against all logic, I said yes.

A few months later, I slid a new key from my pocket, turned the lock on the front door of what would become Women’s Hope Medical Clinic, and crossed the tracks into my own Samaria.

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