The Flight of Faith

“Bravery doesn’t exist without fear,

and faith isn’t faith without doubt.”

—Daniel Aaron

In the dark before dawn, a few porch lights spill faint halos onto Canyon Road. The air bites cold; snow smells imminent, though my shivering has stopped now that I am moving.

Every layer I’d brought wraps me—the same bundle I wore those last hours on the icy floor beneath the dining room table of the Airbnb. The owner had let me leave my bags after checkout, a kindness for guests with late flights. By nightfall there were no rooms left. I texted that my plans were uncertain. She didn’t reply.

The truth: I had nowhere else to go—not the look I wanted to wear.

The larger truth: God told me to stay put—an invisible law, a garment I refused to take off.

Canyon Road feels safe enough. Still, at 4 a.m., I speak my Supreme Self Manifesto under my breath as I pass Pioneer Park. My voice is solid, if soft: I don’t want to disturb those asleep in the houses. I do want to hear if I encounter predators—of whatever species.

“I am the Sultan of Sovereignty, ferocious financial freedom.”

The words march from my mouth, ringing. Instantly my mind taunts: “Really? Look around you, dude. $42 in the bank. A hundred in your pocket.”

I fire back: We are not speaking to describe reality. We are speaking to create it.

The truth bolsters me. Heat—and a strange lift—return to my chest; the next declaration burns brighter.

Declaring who I am always ignites me. Usually the glow endures. Yet a few minutes later, back in the dark dining room, it flickers.

“Why?” The managerial mind again—snarky, small, scared senseless of its own extinction. “Why are we doing this?”

I pause, knocked back to my heels. I could have borrowed money. I could have found another room.

Then the answer rises—steady, simple:

“Because bravery doesn’t exist without fear. And faith isn’t faith without doubt.”

I’d come to Salt Lake City to attend the 195th General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The plan was simple: after the conference I would travel to Phoenix to begin our work—having already paid my mentor $45,000.

I hadn’t raised the funds. Unexpected expenses and delayed payments had blown the plan apart—at least part of it.

When I told Steve, my mentor, that I didn’t have the money yet, he chuckled.

“You know how to make God laugh, right?”

“Tell her my plans,” I said.

At nearly 6 a.m., the dining-room windows pale toward morning. The payments still haven’t arrived. My mind hisses.

C’mon, man. Be reasonable. Book a room for tonight. We’ve had enough of this Spirit-led, faith-first living.

Cold seeps in. My stomach knots with fear and fatigue. The stool: hard, unforgiving. The mind slithers close—”What kind of lame coach are you?”

Before the conference started four days ago, that same rational foreman had counseled me to forget about Phoenix. “Skip it. Go straight to Maui. You’ve got resources there.”

I’d thanked it, dismissed it.

I look within again. The impression remains: go to Phoenix. Even without the coaching work, my gut says it’s our highest choice—even if only to be geographically near Steve.

“That’s ridiculous,” laughs the mind. “And how would you do it? You barely have enough money for a room tonight, let alone a flight to Phoenix.”

“Never mind the fact that you don’t have the money for a place to stay there.
Never mind that the whole purpose of going was to start work with Steve, and that’s not happening.

‘Stop!’ I stand as the command.”

Never. Mind.

More accurate: seldom!

The mind rarely leads to what’s most important—rarely aligned with my Supreme Self. It’s the conditioned shadow, petrified of its own potential.

I head out for another walk. The debate, the not-knowing, feels like screaming in solitary confinement—anguish ricocheting off stone walls.

I think of the strategy I use during long fasts: fifteen minutes at a time. The thought of weeks without food can overwhelm—yet I can fast for another fifteen minutes.

Out of the house, out of the mind—into the body.

Temple Square is already humming—human and holy. Originally I’d thought to stay another day or two to absorb the history and energy of this place.

Passing the Conference Center, I realize: I am to go to the Prophet’s funeral this morning. The instructions are clear—no other decisions until after that.

Yesterday’s viewing comes back to me, seeing his body had elicited unexpected tears. Some call me a convert—joining the Church at fifty-five, just a year ago. I’m not. This is evolution: my own prophetic path, an immersion into a people organized around living the laws of love in action.

Even though staying awake is a struggle—lack of sleep catching up to me—the tributes are moving. He was a man who dedicated his life to love and service, emulating his guru, the master of miracles, Jesus.

As soon as the last Amen fades, I know.

Suddenly, my rational mind snaps to an obedient sit—a silent, attentive dog, eyes alert for its master’s command. It’s no longer a debate. That naysaying manager is now in the employ of something greater—beyond reason, beyond the safety of mediocrity.

My time in Salt Lake City is done. Now. Today. We fly to Phoenix. Every cell in my body zips with congruent certainty.

Two hours ago, “how” was a sneering challenge, a condescending bully. Now, “how” is a curiosity, a mystery.

The Lyft app quotes $28 to the airport. Even with a twenty-percent tip, my account can handle it. I repack my bags, grab the food from the fridge.

On the ride, Enrique tells me about growing up Catholic here in Salt Lake. Three years ago he found his faith again—got off drugs, out of theft, back into life.

My hand twitches toward my phone. Did the funds come in yet?

I ask about his driving business, about the little boy with him in the picture on his dash.

I catch it—my thought form. Doubt. The enemy.

If I am the man for whom flying to Phoenix today is simply what’s happening—already done—how would I behave now?

I listen to Enrique.

“Ya,” he looks at me in the rearview mirror, tears misting the red, white and brown of those earnest ovals. “I get to see him every other weekend now.”

We’re close. “What airline?”

“United.” I have no idea which airline it’ll be. I flew United from Boston to Salt Lake City just over a week ago—ironically, that flight was business class.

Enrique's quick, unloading my heavy bag before I can. I decide I’ll make it a 25% tip. I’ll need to repack—that bag’s over fifty pounds. I’ll wait until I know how we’re flying.

At the United check-in area, it’s clear that AI’s advice—“Talk to the ticket agent, tell them what you have: a few dollars, less than twenty-thousand air miles”—is irrelevant. All bookings are done online now.

I sit. A flicker—temptation to give up—gone before my butt hits the seat.

A United ad flashes across the screen: Cancun for $500 and 90,000 miles. I’ve searched a dozen times already—nothing under $700. Still, I open the app again, half out of faith, half out of habit, half out of hope.

Then I see it. 15,000 miles and $5.60. 8:20 p.m. One stop at LAX, arriving in Phoenix at 12:15 a.m.

For a heartbeat, I hesitate.

What if it’s a mistake? What if it disappears?

I’d missed a great Turo deal on a 2025 Tesla in Boston by hesitating.

I breathe. Blink. My finger pulses.

Still there. Real enough.

Click.

Booked.

Cash remaining in my bank account: $2.47.

The laugh that erupts from my gut startles me as much as the woman sitting opposite. I shrug my shoulders for her.

Once I clear TSA, I pull out my earphones and play the Meters’ Cissy Strut. In the seventies, the band was driving their old van back to New Orleans from a gig in Baton Rouge. The drummer, Zigaboo Modeliste, noticed the engine making an unusual sound. It meant the engine needed service, yes—but he heard something else.

His hands instinctively started drumming on the dash, adding to the rhythm the distressed engine was kicking out. From the driver’s seat, Art Neville started singing.

The airport floor—rock-solid tile—lets my roller briefcase glide. I dance with it all the way to Terminal C gate 13.

A little more than three hours until the flight would depart, the lounge is empty. I plop into a seat in the corner, and one of my newer declarations pops to consciousness. I’d been speaking it only for a few weeks.

I am the mastery of Space, Magic and Miracles.

I remove my shoes and socks, put my feet up on the roller bag. I wonder how it happened that we are here now. Then I rephrase it as a familiar question:

How did I create this?

A same-day flight for $5.60 is cool.

Way cooler is the faith—the freedom from fear, from the wimpy, reasonable mind that had nearly derailed me time and again.

That freedom fizzes through my cells like bubbles rising at the base of Niagara Falls.

Bubbles like bravery.

Faith, the freefall itself.

From my cooler bag I pull out the carton of strawberries. I bought them a week ago when I was staying with a friend south of Salt Lake City. We ate half the same day and hadn’t touched them since. When I took them to the AirBnB, part of me thought it ridiculous to be schlepping them around.

Before I open the container, my phone lights up—a payment has come in. I book a place a few miles from my mentor.

It occurs to me he’d said he wanted to hear the story of how the twelve security guards pulled me out of the General Conference. We’d yet to meet in person—only by phone and video calls—though I’d interviewed his remarkable wife on my podcast.

The coaching work with him will have to wait for another trip. Tomorrow I’ll send a message: I can tell him the story by phone, or in person. Maybe a walk. Maybe tea.

I hit play on The Meters again and set my phone down. My head bops with the funky beat. They are the juiciest, sweetest strawberries I’ve ever tasted.