This is a goodbye post.

I said goodbye to something I liked a lot last week. Not a person. Not a place. But a thing. And when I tell you the reason, my hope is that you will join me.

That thing? Try not to roll your eyes or laugh, OK? I got rid of my dream truck last week.

Now let me explain why and why this was such a big deal.

For starters, I have a big announcement coming here shortly.

Life for me and my family is about to get real interesting starting September 1. Once that happens, I’ll be driving more. A lot more, really. There are a lot of audiobooks, podcasts, mile markers, gas station bathrooms, and windshield cleanings in my future.

So I needed something more fuel-efficient. Cost-effective. Lower gas bills, lower payments, and—in reality—lower to the ground.

(My extremely lifted truck—with massive tires, exhaust that could wake the dead, and a host of other upgrades—just isn’t practical for highway driving.)

But while I could outline a dozen more practical reasons why I had to get rid of my dream truck and why it made sense, one thing would still be true:

The main reason I had to get rid of that truck was because God told me to.

I feel a little awkward saying that. Maybe you feel a little awkward reading it. I’ve historically bristled at people who throw out the phrase “God told me”—because a lot of times, the thing God “told” them to do sounds an awful lot like something they wanted to do anyway.

It’s an excuse, not an exercise.

But I did not want this.

My truck only had 75k miles on it. My wife had brought up selling it a couple of times in the past year or so as our finances “shifted.” It was always an instant “nope” from me.

But this time? It wasn’t just my wife saying it. And my reaction? I didn’t shoot it down. In fact, I even got a little excited about it. When I found a replacement that wasn’t remotely close to what I had but was a good deal that I could still have fun with, I jumped on it. Again, that’s not something I’d normally do.

That’s partly how I knew God was doing something.

But can I be honest?

Even though I know God made it clear that it was time to move on, it was hard. A lot harder than I thought it would be. Still is, a little. I did not have “get emotional—and remain a little emotional—after saying goodbye to a hunk of rolling metal” on my 2026 bingo card.

But alas, here we are. I’ve even shed a tear or two. Go ahead, laugh. But it’s true.

Why is that? How can getting rid of a truck cause a man to cry? Am I some materialistic maniac? At times, sure. But I don’t think that’s the case here.

Sure, there are some selfish reasons for wanting to keep a nice truck that I babied for the last five years—even if it was the previous owner who spent way too much money making it look and drive the way it did.

(I’m also 5’6”, so maybe there’s a part of me that loved feeling—at least for a minute—like I was taller than everyone.)

But I think I’ve struggled to say goodbye to the truck I called “Ron” for three reasons.

My truck was with me during what I call my “severe slide” period—the period when I started to look like a traditional addict and transformed into “the Christian Alcoholic.”

In some ways, it’s one of the last vestiges of who I was back then. And while I’m so glad to be three years removed from that person, there’s still some grieving that takes place from time to time when I think about it.

About him.

As I said goodbye to that truck, some of that grief surfaced.

I talk a lot about costly obedience. Obedience often requires sacrifice, and sacrifice, by definition, costs us something. It should sting a little.

And guess what: I loved my old truck. I just did. It was nice. It was fun. It was cool. I mean, look at it! So yes, saying goodbye to it stings.

This is by far the biggest factor. The root issue. The heart issue.

Listen, I am so excited for what’s coming. It’s obvious God has orchestrated it. He’s confirmed it to me and my family in so many ways.

But it’s definitely going to be different. It’s a change. And I generally hate change. I crave comfort and safety. And safety looks like keeping as many things “normal” as possible and making sure that if things don’t work out the way I want, I have a backup plan.

My truck had become that backup plan. A soft landing. An “At least I’ll have this nice thing if everything God is calling me into goes to crap.”

And I was convicted about that because it revealed a hesitancy to truly trust God. As long as I was idolizing safety, I wasn’t going to be fully surrendered.

But God isn’t calling me to be safe. He’s calling me to be obedient. He’s calling me to go “all in.” He’s calling me to surender every part of myself to him—even the part that sits on 35” tires, 2” spacers, and a 6” lift.

So I’m going all in. I’m choosing to trust.

Selling this truck isn’t just about lowering my monthly car payment or saving gas—although those are nice. For me, it’s about taking a step of faith. About being obedient. About going “all in” and exposing as much of my heart to him as possible.

I like to say, “Shoot for Jesus, get sobriety thrown in.” I’m shooting for Jesus in this area and getting some financial benefits thrown in.

But the point has to be the Savior, not the savings.

That is the root reason I needed to sell my truck. And I am both excited and cautious. There’s a lot of, “OK, God, we’re really doing this? We’re doing this! Wait, are we really doing this? Yeah, OK. We’re doing this!”

We most definitely are doing this.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I found a great deal on a used truck that I consider a blessing. And you can bet I’m still going to modify and upgrade it to make it my own and up the “cool” factor.

But it’s taken a step of faith to get to this point. Or maybe a drive of faith.

And as I start this drive, I’ll be quieter on the road, a little lower to the ground, and a lot closer to God—not because of a 6” lift, but because I finally surrendered something I’d been holding onto.

Go figure.

Here’s to blazing a trail of faith on a new frontier—or rather, in a new(ish) Frontier. Join me. Let’s go all in.

P.S. And friend, let me ask you: What “backup plan” might you be holding onto because it makes you feel safe? Hit reply or tell me in the comments. I’d genuinely love to hear.

P.P.S. Yes, my old truck was named “Ron” because it was burgundy. If you don’t get the joke, I can’t help you. 😂

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