My Spiritual Journey

Out of the Fog: A Journey into Light

Why Are We Here?

One beautiful fall morning in 2001, I sat in a Laredo coffee shop with my colleague Randy—a Buddhist who looked like "Buddha Santa Claus"—when we stumbled onto a question that wouldn't let us go: "Why are we here?" What started as a discussion about why our students needed to show up for class turned into something far more profound. We discovered what we called "magic"—those unrepeatable moments when hearts and minds connect in ways that feel impossibly orchestrated. Back then, I was spiritually asleep, colder than lukewarm in my faith, still carrying existential questions from my days as an Air Force missile launch officer. I didn't realize it at the time, but that morning marked the beginning of my journey toward recognizing what I'd been calling "magic" was actually something far more profound: divine appointments, where God shows up in our ordinary moments with extraordinary purpose.

Spiritual Nomad

For two years, I wandered between coffee shops and golf courses with my Buddhist friend Randy B and Presbyterian Pastor Dale, chasing questions about quantum physics, mountain-moving faith, and whether all paths lead to God. We were "Nomads of the Noetic"—all speed and no direction, equally fascinated by Mormonism on Monday and Thessalonians on Thursday. I was intellectually curious but spiritually empty, one foot planted in the known while the other dangled over the abyss of the unknown. Then Pastor Dale invited me to a Walk to Emmaus retreat, and I reluctantly agreed—suspicious of cult-like indoctrination and resentful of three wasted days. What I encountered instead was a multitude of lights in the darkness, brothers living as "doers of the Word," and a moment when God captured my heart in ways no philosophy or "medicine" could replicate. The nomadic wandering was over. My pilgrim walk had begun.

Testing the Waters

After the spiritual high of my Walk to Emmaus, I was searching for more fire—something beyond coffee shop philosophy and head-level Christianity. My wife and I landed at a Pentecostal church where worship was loud, passionate, and unlike anything I'd experienced. I was baptized in front of 250 pairs of watching eyes, hoping the plunge would finally transform me into someone who genuinely liked people the way my brother Randy P did after his conversion. It didn't. The church insisted I needed to speak in tongues to truly receive the Holy Spirit, and week after week, a persistent sister dragged me closer to that moment of truth. Then came the day a missionary lined us up like dominoes at a firing squad, striking foreheads and shouting "FIRE!" as people collapsed around me. Palm strike to my head—nothing. Again—still nothing. I stood there, the only one left standing, face crimson with embarrassment, yet somehow hearing God whisper, "You are not dead, you are alive." What the church saw as failure, God saw as something else entirely.

The Ticker Tape

Two months after standing firm at the tongues firing line, I had settled into a routine of showing up to church in body while my mind wandered elsewhere. I was tired of feeling alone in a room full of "family" and frustrated that I couldn't be authentic about Christ in my university classroom. I had become a benchwarmer on God's team, lukewarm and comfortable riding the pine. Then one Sunday, as I sat near the back contemplating Viktor Frankl and that afternoon's football game, a scrolling ticker tape appeared across my mind's eye—both inside my head and floating in the space between me and the pulpit. The message was simple and unmistakable: "Write about Me and for Me, Your Lord." It looped again and again. God had just called my number, pulling me off the bench and into His game. There was just one problem: I had never been to seminary, hadn't read the entire Bible, and had no idea how to write from my heart instead of my head. But the Coach of coaches was calling me to play anyway.

Crisis and Encounter

For ten years after receiving God's ticker tape message, my life was on cruise control—writing for Him in spare moments while pouring most of my energy into university life. When I took early retirement, pride slipped in like a shadow at noon. I moved to my dream home in the Texas Hill Country with a vision board plastered with images of luxury motorcoaches and Mercedes—not a single Bible verse among them. "We're going to live where we want and do what we want," I declared, deaf to any warning whispers. Then came Easter weekend 2016, when I crashed my longboard into the asphalt at 20 mph, shattering my elbow into puzzle pieces. The fall wasn't just physical—it was God's intervention to stop me from falling away entirely. Through months of excruciating physical therapy, as I struggled through a Tai Chi movement called "heavenly rise," Jesus appeared on my patio under a willow tree. He stood, looked at me with calm love, and mirrored my movement—showing me how it's done. My pain-wracked arm rose effortlessly to chest height, then above my head in perfect unison with Him.

Boomers Mulligans

Years after my fall and miraculous encounters with Jesus, I found myself half-stepping through life—consulting occasionally, writing mechanically, wearing the label of "retired professor" like a comfortable but ill-fitting coat. Then one beautiful day at Louise Hays Park in Kerrville, a voice broke through the silence of my calm mind: "Boomer's Mulligans." The two words looped in my head like the ticker tape message years before, refusing to be silenced. I smiled at the pairing—"Boomer" for my Baby Boomer stage of life, "Mulligans" for those golf do-overs when you mess up a shot. But God wasn't being playful. He was using my wife Rose as His not-so-secret weapon to drive the point home: "What has Dr. Trace Pirtle done lately?" It stung like my father's childhood disappointment, but it was true. I was bench-warming in God's Kingdom, out in the rough again. God was offering me a mulligan, a chance to get back in the game—starting with a seat on what I came to call the Jesus Bench.

For years, I believed church was a weekly spiritual gas station—show up, get your dose of God, go home, and try not to mess up too badly during the week. I wasn't prepared for what happens when you actually step off the bench and into the Kingdom as a starter for Christ. After my fall, my encounters with Jesus, and eighteen months as God's water boy in "Off the Bench Ministry," the rusty faucet finally broke free. What started as manageable drops became a steady stream, then a torrent, until I was standing under Niagara Falls with my mouth open and eyes wide. This wasn't Sunday school math anymore—this was Kingdom Quantum Physics, a completely vertical learning curve like an ejection seat ride straight into the heavens. On January 2, 2025, over coffee at McDonald's, a pastor asked me to teach Romans. That same week, doors opened to nursing home ministry with veterans. By March 11th, I heard "Faith in Action Ministry, Texas Hill Country" and knew exactly what to do. The fire hydrant had opened, and there was no going back to drip-system Christianity.

Full Flow