Pedals
of Faith

The morning was quiet — that kind of stillness that lingers before the world wakes up. The light over Bentonville was soft and gold, slipping through the trees like grace through broken places. I stood in the garage, one hand on the handlebars of my gravel bike, the other holding a cooling cup of coffee. For a while, I just stared at it — the same bike that had carried me across miles, mountains, and moments of purpose. But lately, it had sat untouched. I hadn't had the strength to ride — not the physical kind, but the kind that comes from your soul.

Then, that morning, something shifted. Not loudly. Quietly. A whisper inside me said, It's time. I clipped in, pushed off, and started pedaling. The first strokes felt heavy, hesitant. My legs were stiff, my heart unsure. But as the wheels turned, something within me loosened. The rhythm returned. The gravel hummed beneath the tires. The wind pressed against my face. And somewhere between the sunlight and the sound of the creek, I felt it — the presence I had missed.

My story doesn't begin on a mountaintop. It begins with a break. November 2023. I sat at my desk in Bentonville, Arkansas, staring at a computer screen that reflected both possibility and emptiness. For the first time in years, I had no job, no plan, no next step—just a quiet stretch that felt heavier than noise. The cursor blinked at me like a metronome counting the seconds of my uncertainty. A year earlier, Raquel and I had left Miami behind. Palm trees became pines, beaches became trails, and the nonstop pulse of the city gave way to the gentle rhythm of small-town life.

We'd packed up our one-bedroom apartment, said goodbye to the friends who'd become family, and driven north with everything we owned. Bentonville slowed me down in ways I didn't know I needed—seasons felt like God whispering, breathe differently. The autumn leaves turned gold and crimson in ways Miami never could. The air carried a crispness that made me notice my own breathing. But for Raquel, the transition cut deeper. She missed the ocean, the warmth, the sound of waves that had always steadied her.

I'd wake at seven, brew a dark roast, and sit at the same desk where I'd once led Zoom meetings and closed deals. But there was no work. No emails requiring urgent responses. No calendar notifications pulling me into the next thing. Just me, the blinking cursor, and one haunting question: Now what? I had spent my whole life in motion—chasing goals, building momentum, feeding the engine inside me that only knew forward. In Miami, I'd thrived on the hustle, the meetings, the constant climb.

But one evening, as we sat on our small back patio watching the sun set behind the trees, I finally opened to Raquel. She listened quietly, her hand finding mine, then spoke with a calm conviction that cut straight through my fog: "Get close to God. This is your wilderness, Ricky. Wildernesses aren't empty—they're where He speaks." She paused, squeezing my hand. "Moses had forty years. Jesus had forty days. Maybe you have a season too." Her faith had carried her long before I entered her life.

Now, stripped of the control I once clung to, her words finally made sense. By January, my mornings transformed from routine to ritual. Coffee brewing, worship music filling the room, knees on the ground, honest words—sometimes gratitude, sometimes desperation. God, I can't see the next step. Please lead me. I started keeping a journal, scribbling prayers and verses that spoke to my confusion. Philippians 4:6-7 became my anchor: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."

By February, Bentonville was wrapped in white. I'm not a big fan of the cold, but there was something restorative in that quiet—snow softened everything and slowed the world long enough for me to breathe. I'd take Indy, our dog, on long walks through trails dusted with fresh powder. The crunch of snow beneath our feet became a rhythm, a meditation. Inside, though, I was exhausted—tired of waiting, tired of applying, tired of feeling invisible. I researched opportunities: retail roles in big cities, CPG positions tied to Walmart's orbit, marketing positions that matched my experience.