From the Archives: I Almost Died Bench Pressing

I never thought I’d die this way. Bench pressing. Alone. In my brother’s room.

But there I was—a teenager, a bar pressing down on my chest, lungs screaming, arms shaking.

All I could think about was how humiliating it would be if everyone in school found out I died lifting weights—alone. Not exactly the legacy I had in mind.

My brother was out for the day, and temptation won. I snuck into his room and climbed onto his forbidden bench. Set after set, rep after rep, I pushed myself to the edge, squeezing in every ounce of strength while I had the chance.

Eventually, fatigue claimed me. I stripped off a lot of weight on the bar and tried one last burnout set. Halfway through, I failed. My arms buckled. My chest burned. And then—the bar settled, firm and final, right across me.

It wasn’t heavy. Not yet panic-heavy. But the clamps were locked. I was trapped.

“Mom! Mom!” I screamed.

No answer. I was beginning to gasp for breath.

I used all of my air and with one final roar yelled again for my mom. She came running. Lifted the bar. Freed me.

Embarrassment barely scratches it. But it was the payback I deserved.

Before my near-death by barbell, I was in high school, part of a weight-training crew that loved to joke around.

While someone was lifting, we were supposed to be spotting but we were too busy roasting each other. One guy was pulling a heavy bar. We looked up too late. He was now lying on the floor. The bar hovered right at his throat.

Thankfully, the bumper weights were tall enough to keep it off him but just barely.

Our distraction almost killed him. A lack of focus almost turned a routine lift into a tragedy.

That’s exactly what happens in life. When we’re too caught up in ourselves, too busy joking, judging, scrolling, or ignoring, we miss the people gasping under invisible weight.

We were made to be our brother’s keeper (Genesis 4:9). To watch, to see, to step in. Sometimes it’s holding the weight for someone else until they find their strength.

But human spotters have limits. We miss signs. We can’t always hear the gasps. We can’t always see the bar tilting.

Enter the Holy Spirit: the ultimate spotter. The One who sees before we see. Who hears before we speak. Who lifts before we even know we’re falling. He is our helper, our lifter, our unseen strength.

God still spots us by speaking to us. Sometimes it’s a whisper, a nudge, a fleeting thought. But if we ignore it, tragedy can follow.

The SS Californian was less than twenty miles from the Titanic when it sank. They saw the flares. They tried to respond—but the operator had gone to bed. An estimated fifteen hundred people died because an SOS wasn’t heard.

I’ve been part of God sending an SOS through me.

I was a nervous wreck—only my second time preaching, dry-heaving behind the pulpit, anxious about looking foolish. Weeks of preparation didn’t calm my nerves. But all week, one thought kept repeating: “Tell them not to sign the papers.”

I prayed, “God, what papers? Who?”

Silence.

The voice wouldn’t go away. Persistent, but mysterious. I prayed for clarity. Nothing.

In the middle of the sermon, it came again: “Tell them not to sign the papers.”

I hesitated. “God, if this isn’t You, I’m about to look crazy.”

But I obeyed.

“I don’t know who this is for,” I said, “but I feel like God is telling me to say this: Don’t sign the papers.”

The congregation stared. No reaction. My heart sank.

Later, a young woman approached, tears streaming: “I have divorce papers on my kitchen counter. Thank you. I won’t sign them.”

The bar was invisible. The weight was real. And the rescue came because God was the spotter through me.

God still speaks. And sometimes the cost of ignoring Him is devastating.

A pastor friend shared a story that haunts me to this day. During a church service, he felt the Holy Spirit urging him to encourage a teenager. The kid seemed fine—solid family, always at church, everything together.

My friend ignored the prompt. That same week, the teenager tragically took his own life.

Life will put bars on our chest. Fatigue, trials, sin, grief—they’re heavy. But with courage, and the Spirit guiding our eyes, ears, and hearts, no bar needs to crush us.

Watch. Pray. Step in. Spot the strain. Listen. Lift.

We were never meant to go it alone and sometimes, the smallest whisper, the gentlest nudge, is what saves a life.

Go be a spotter today!

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