On my way to softball practice, I was in a head-on collision that left me with a traumatic brain injury. I was in a coma for more than two weeks. I didn’t know it then, but my father, Jay Scheele—a first responder in our Nebraska county—was the one who arrived at the scene. He stabilized my neck as emergency crews pulled me from the wreckage and lifted me into the ambulance. That alone could’ve been the hardest, most heroic moment of his life.
But a few months later, he faced an even tougher task: he told me there was a greater hero in my life—God—and that the rest of my recovery was a journey between me and Him.
While most 15-year-olds in rural Nebraska were just starting to learn how to drive or working on their family farms, I was relearning how to walk, talk, and eat at a rehabilitation facility. I had once played softball, raised horses, and coached Special Olympians. Now, I needed help to brush my teeth and use the bathroom.
There were days I wanted to give up. One particularly hard day, I told my therapist I was done. As she wheeled me back to my room at Madonna Rehabilitation Hospital, there was Dad, waiting for me like he always had been.
But this time, he didn’t swoop in to fix everything. He just looked at me and said, “I can’t make you walk. This is a conversation you need to have with God.”
At first, I was stunned. But he was right. I hadn’t once turned to God in all my suffering. I was proud, frustrated, and lost in grief over my new reality. But that night, alone in my hospital room, I stared at the ceiling and prayed—really prayed—for the first time. I asked God for strength. The next morning, I was ready to try again. I attempted to stand.
It’s been nearly three years since that moment, and while I still don’t know exactly why the accident happened, I’ve come to realize my story isn’t just about me. It’s about hope. It’s about resilience. And it’s about what our struggles can do for others.
At first, I was upset to learn that nearly 100,000 people had followed my journey on Caring Bridge, seeing photos of me unconscious in a hospital bed. But over time, people reached out to say that seeing my fight gave them strength in their own battles. That changed how I saw it.
This spring, I went to prom with Carson, a friend I made at Madonna. He was in a similar accident and now uses a wheelchair. His light, though, shines brightly. What he needs—what we all need—is connection. Being seen. Being understood.
That’s part of why I’m joining 20,000 other young people this summer in New Orleans for the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod Youth Gathering. I went to the same event right before my accident, and I know this time will be different. I may not be speaking from a stage, but when someone asks, “What have you been up to?” I’ll share my story. Maybe that conversation will help someone healing from trauma, battling anxiety, or simply struggling to feel whole.
This Father’s Day, I’m grateful—grateful that I still have my dad by my side, the same man who held me as a baby and held my body steady as I was loaded into an ambulance. But I’m even more grateful to my Heavenly Father, the one who met me in my darkest moment and gave me the courage to take the next step.