Arenacross became one of the most unexpected platforms of my life. Like many things in my journey, it didn’t begin with some master plan. God was already lining things up long before I realized it.
That’s why I do these shows, the meet and greets, the personal appearances, the handshakes, and the conversations. It’s about taking time to listen to people, being present with them, and hearing what they’re going through. It’s about loving on people and showing genuine care.
Over the years, I’ve signed thousands of posters, but the autograph isn’t really the point. When someone steps up, I usually ask their name, what they enjoy doing for fun, and what their dreams are.
Sometimes it’s a kid. Sometimes it’s a teenager. Sometimes it’s an adult who has been carrying something heavy for a long time. There really isn’t an age limit on encouragement.
I like to look people in the eye and remind them to keep chasing their dreams. Those conversations often last longer than the autograph itself, but those moments matter.
For days after an event, we often hear from people. Messages from folks who say they needed that more than we ever realized. Sometimes they just needed a reason to smile. Sometimes they needed encouragement to keep going. Sometimes they simply needed hope.
When people watch what we do, they see the motorcycles, the wheelies, and the excitement. But what they don’t always see is the real reason behind it.
My own life has been filled with victories and painful seasons. There have been moments when I felt strong and moments when I felt completely broken. There were times when fear, discouragement, and loneliness tried to take hold. But again and again I experienced something very real.
I saw God showing up in ways I could never explain on my own.
So many times Tina and I have left our home, left our family, and left our work to drive across the country chasing what we believe God has called us to do. From the outside it can look exciting and glamorous. Sometimes it is. But sometimes it’s hard and ugly too.
You could trace it back to the 1990s when my oldest son, Daniel, started flagging at Arenacross events. His first real jobs came alongside people like Tracy Kitchens, Audie Davis, and Tony Ribeiro at Lone Star Arenacross in Stephenville, Texas. Back then it just felt like Daniel helping out around racing, learning responsibility, and being part of something he loved. Now it feels more like the first domino falling.
Somewhere along the way, I decided I was going to try Arenacross racing myself. A big part of that decision revolved around my youngest son, Tye. He was already racing, and as a father, motocross tracks made me uneasy. Outdoor tracks stretch for acres, disappear behind hills and trees, and force you to spend half the race hoping instead of watching. Arenacross was different. Indoors, I could see everything. Every jump, every corner, every mistake, every save. I could watch Tye’s entire race from start to finish without losing him for a second, and that mattered more to me than I probably admitted at the time.
The controlled environment didn’t hurt either. I’ve never been much of a fan of the elements. I don’t like rain, snow, wind, or extreme heat. But I’ll choose heat over cold every time, and indoors just made sense.
That said, I didn’t like Arenacross at first. It felt tight and restrictive compared to motocross, where speed and flow stretch across open land. That opinion didn’t last long, because what I eventually realized is that Arenacross is a finesse sport. You have to be smooth and precise. Timing matters more than horsepower. Rhythm matters more than aggression. You don’t just jump, you jump in sequence.
Everything has to connect. Starts matter a lot, and I’ve been fortunate over the years at being a good starter and getting holeshots. That helped me fall in love with Arenacross quicker than I expected.
Daniel stayed involved for many years. In 2000, he, Audie, and Tracy started a promotion company called DAT MX Events. They ran it successfully for a long time before deciding to exit. Looking back, the biggest and most impactful creation from those guys working together was the Graham Arenacross. Even today it still exists and is doing quite well, which says a lot about the foundation they laid back then.
Then in late 2015, everything changed.
I got a call from a friend, Michael Connor, a fellow FCA chaplain, asking if I could cover for him at the Arenacross event in Mesquite, Texas. He had other obligations and couldn’t make it. I was so excited I about peed on myself. That may sound dramatic, but it’s the truth. This felt like opportunity knocking loud enough that I couldn’t ignore it.
I asked Michael what he normally did at these events. He told me he set up a table, handed out ministry materials, prayed with riders who wanted prayer, and sometimes prayed at rider meetings. I told him I could do that, but I usually did more. He warned me these were high-stakes events with tight schedules and very little wiggle room. He wasn’t sure the promoter would allow much beyond the basics. I told him I understood and that I’d keep everyone happy.
When I showed up at that event, I met the promoter and owner, Jay Reynolds. I introduced myself and told him why I was there. He gave me a quick nod and went right back to business.
Later that morning, I worked up the nerve to track him down again and asked if I could do a short trackside chapel at the rider meeting. He looked at me like I was the craziest man in the building.
I explained that we had been doing ministry at race events for years and that it was polished, respectful, and short. I told him I understood time mattered and that every minute counted. I told him my goal wasn’t to hijack the program but to add something meaningful without disrupting the flow.
Rider meeting time came, and Jay was standing on the stairs above the riders wrapping things up. I could see the meeting coming to a close, and my heart started pounding because I knew the window was closing with it.
So I did what I have done many times when fear and calling collide. I stepped forward, walked up the stairs, and put him on the spot.
He finished in another minute, leaned over, and whispered in my ear:
You’ve got 2 minutes. Make it count.
Those 2 minutes changed the course of my life.
That moment began a long and rewarding relationship with Jay and thousands of racers and fans across America.
Later that same day, I asked if I could do the opening prayer for the ceremonies. This time his look wasn’t shock. It was cautious consideration. He told me he would think about it.
As the day went on, I tracked him down again and explained that I wasn’t trying to be a pest. This was simply what I was called to do. He agreed, but he told me something important. If I was going to do it, I needed to handle it. He didn’t have time for running changes, and he trusted me to make it flow.
That trust meant everything.
It went off without a hitch. By the end of the day, something shifted. He saw my heart and my intention, and he no longer felt like he was being pushed into a corner. Saturday went just as smoothly, and by the end of the weekend, a door had opened that wasn’t going to close again.
Somewhere after that opening weekend, the nickname started floating around.
The 2-Minute Preacherman.
It stuck not because it was flashy, but because it was accurate. No fluff, no pressure, just truth delivered in the time I was given.
A few days later, Michael called and said he had heard good things from everyone, including Jay. Then he told me he couldn’t make the next weekend either and asked if I would cover again. I said yes without hesitation. Then he told me the location, Du Quoin, Illinois. I didn’t realize at the time it was 880 miles from home in the dead of winter, not far from Chicago. I found out soon enough.
When I pulled into the fairgrounds, something happened that caught me completely off guard. Jay found me first and asked Tina and me to pray with him over some hard decisions he was facing.
That moment changed everything. I knew then this wasn’t just opportunity. It was trust.
That weekend, I told Jay I wanted to add another layer. I told him I wanted to start doing stunts during intermission when there wasn’t other entertainment. Without hesitation, he said yes and then asked if I could help round up more entertainment, jump contests, whip contests, wheelie contests, anything that would keep people engaged during the break.
Friday and Saturday night went perfectly. Trackside chapel, rider meeting prayer, opening ceremony prayer, fog machines, lights, lasers, and standing under the spotlight speaking Jesus right in the middle of an Arenacross event. That still blows my mind.
The following week, Michael called again. He still couldn’t make it. Then he asked me something I honestly never expected. He asked if I would take over as the ministry presence for the tour and serve as the chaplain, or whatever title fit. It took me about one millisecond to say yes to that.
When Michael returned later, I offered him his position back. He declined and told me he believed God had orchestrated everything and didn’t want to interfere with something that clearly had God’s hands on it. He stepped into the role of competition director instead, which is a massive responsibility in itself. Years later, I had the honor of performing Michael’s wedding to his bride, Bri.
As the years went on, the whole idea of the 2-minute Preacherman slowly faded back to just The Preacherman. Not because the message mattered less, but because the trust grew deeper. What started as a tightly guarded window eventually turned into something far more meaningful. Over time, I watched the importance of the godly elements grow in Jay’s heart, and these days I’m rarely rushed at all. Most of the time, I’m simply given the space to share what I feel led to share, and that’s something I don’t take lightly.
That growth didn’t stop with words over a microphone. It expanded into action. Over a typical event weekend, we now hold four church services, two each day, one for amateurs and one for pros. They’ve become a natural part of the program, not an interruption or an add-on, but something riders, families, and teams have come to expect and appreciate.
Out of that has grown even more opportunity, including our ministry feeding riders and their families, not just spiritually but physically as well. Community now forms where there were once only pit areas, and conversations happen around tables that never existed before.
Over time, what started that day simply kept growing. That may be one of the greatest rewards Arenacross has ever given me.
Fulfilling God’s call to continue these ministry endeavors is what has kept Tina and me on this long road with Arenacross. One of the greatest blessings has been participating in baptisms each year on the tour. Just this past season alone, we baptized people in Springfield and Branson, Missouri, and in Topeka, Kansas. We are deeply honored and grateful for every person this ministry has been blessed to serve in this way.
I still smile thinking about the honor of uniting racers in marriage ceremonies on the very tracks where they competed. One of the most meaningful was when I had the privilege of marrying James and Jeannifer Spangler in Springfield, Missouri. Standing in the middle of an arenacross track, surrounded by friends, family, and the racing community, was a powerful reminder that God can use any platform for something far bigger than the sport itself.
Watching them commit their lives to one another in that setting was special, but what has meant even more is seeing how they have continued to live it out. They set a beautiful example of what marriage is meant to be. Real love. Genuine companionship. Choosing each other every day. They love the Lord, they love people, and they live their lives in a way that encourages everyone around them.
Their story didn’t stop there. Later on, I also had the privilege of baptizing their boys, Gage and Aiden, while we were still on tour. Moments like that reminded me how much Arenacross had changed for me over the years. What once revolved mostly around racing and competition had grown into something far greater: a ministry where families were strengthened, relationships were built, and lives were changed, with faith being lived out right in the middle of arenas and racetracks.
So much happens in such a short window, and I’ve watched it unfold hundreds of times.
One moment an arena is alive with lights, engines, music, and thousands of people. Dirt sculpted into rhythm sections, jumps, and whoops. Crews moving with purpose. Riders focused. Fans leaning forward on the edge of their seats.
Then, almost as quickly as it came together, it disappears.
Within hours everything is torn down, leveled, or hauled out as if it never happened. The lights go dark. The noise fades. The building returns to silence.
What lives between those two moments is a world of work most people never see. Many times well over 200 dump truck loads of dirt are hauled in, shaped, packed, watered, and maintained. Sometimes truckloads of round hay bales are brought in to build larger obstacles throughout the track. Track crews, office staff, ticket teams, timing crews, and countless behind-the-scenes workers give everything they have so racers and fans can experience something special for just a couple of nights under the lights.
For the riders, it’s a taste of fame. A taste of stardom. A glimpse of what may lie ahead.
For me, it has always been a reminder of something deeper.
I carry deep respect and gratitude for the people who make it all happen without ever asking for recognition.
Being allowed to organize and participate in opening ceremonies still blows my mind. Standing in those moments, looking across an arena filled with families, racers, veterans, and kids waving flags, has always carried deep meaning for me. When you stand on a public platform like that, people see what happens on the surface, and sometimes they miss the heart behind it.
I have been questioned about many things, including my faith. What surprised me most was one night when I found myself questioned about my patriotism.
My shows and performances have always carried a strong spirit of patriotism. From honoring the National Anthem to celebrating our freedoms, that has been a consistent part of the platform God entrusted to me for decades.
During that opening ceremony, I prayed and then had the honor of introducing Randy Meredith to sing the National Anthem. As the song progressed and moved toward the effects portion of the ceremony, I knelt beside Palmer James Lewallen, a vibrant three-year-old who was serving as the flag presenter.
I thought it would be special to introduce him as the youngest racer, alongside myself as the oldest. He sat on his STACYc bike and needed a little assistance, which is why his father Joel knelt beside him as well. I knelt down to be close to him and to help make sure he wouldn’t become overwhelmed by the fire cannons and effects that were about to go off in a loud, dark arena.
To me, it was simply a caring moment. One adult helping a young child feel safe in a very big situation.
From a distance, some people saw something different.
That moment reminded me of an important truth about living in the public eye. When people don’t know your heart, they often interpret things through their own experiences and assumptions.
My love for this country, our freedoms, and the values that both the Arenacross world and I stand for have always remained strong and unwavering. That love has been evident throughout my life in racing, ministry, and the way I have tried to serve others.
What some viewed as a statement was never a statement at all. It was simply a quiet moment of care for a young child standing in a very big moment.
Not every moment inside that arena was joyful. Some of the most sobering lessons of my life also happened there. Arenacross also taught me something else: anytime you are in live entertainment, anything can happen, and it usually will. Sometimes the hardest moments didn’t happen on the track itself, but in the lives of the people who made up the Arenacross family.
Arenacross has also given me lifelong relationships that run far deeper than business or race night, and one of the deepest has been my friendship with Jay. He isn’t just a promoter. He is family to me. We’ve shared some of the highest mountaintop moments in this sport together, and we’ve also walked through some of the deepest valleys.
Jay and his family faced a heartbreak that shook all of us when his daughter, Mariah, who everyone lovingly called Mya, passed away far too young at just 25 years old on May 23, 2021.
Mya grew up in the Arenacross world. She traveled the circuit, worked merchandise from a young age, loved the sport deeply, and even enjoyed racing her quad at the events. She carried one of the most infectious smiles you could ever imagine and brought energy, kindness, and joy wherever she went.
Her passing reminded all of us that Arenacross is more than a series, more than a business, and more than entertainment. It is a family. When one of us hurts, we all hurt.
Standing with Jay during that season of grief was one of the hardest and most meaningful moments of my ministry life. It reinforced something I have seen again and again: we can build events, programs, and careers, but what truly matters in the end is the people God places in our lives and the love we share with them.
Years earlier, another moment inside an arena had already taught me just how fragile life can be.
On January 1, 2016, at a tour stop in Lebanon, Missouri, I was getting ready for intermission entertainment when a young man named Tucker Reeves was scheduled to do a UTV backflip.
I had gotten to know Tucker the year before, and I was drawn to him because of his incredible spirit and passion. He had a rare mix of talent and joy that made everyone want to see him succeed.
That day after the heat races I noticed something different. He was sitting on the steps and looked uneasy. I sat down beside him and asked what was wrong. He told me he was scared of flipping the UTV.
I told him the truth. He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t scared.
We had watched others do that flip over the months leading up to it. It was always violent. It had a reputation for violence, often breaking major components and sometimes even blowing shock towers out of the frame.
I prayed with Tucker and told him he didn’t have to do it. If he felt uneasy he could walk away and no one worth listening to would judge him.
He didn’t want to hear that. He was nervous, but he was all in.
Intermission came. The equipment rolled out. The building shifted into that familiar energy. Lights, crowd, adrenaline. I was doing floor commentary with cameras running.
I counted down.
Three. Two. One.
He gave me a thumbs up and went for it.
He hit the prop, launched into the air, and executed the flip perfectly. Clean rotation. Clean commitment. Clean landing.
And that perfection was part of what made the impact so catastrophic.
He landed square on all four wheels. The crowd erupted. But within seconds the atmosphere changed. Jay approached the unit, and it became clear something was terribly wrong.
That night Jay and I went to the hospital. Seeing Tucker fighting for life was one of the hardest moments I have ever experienced. We prayed with him, prayed with his parents, and stayed with him as long as we could.
By the grace of God and an incredible medical team, Tucker survived.
But he did more than survive.
He chose purpose.
He learned to live life from a wheelchair with the same joy and determination that always defined him. He continued creating, continued contributing, and continued inspiring everyone around him.
His dreams didn’t end that night.
They changed.
Later, when I asked his permission to tell his story in this book, his response was exactly what I expected.
He said he would be honored.
The world is a better place because of Tucker Reeves, and I know I’m a better man because of him.
Over the years I’ve seen a lot of success, a lot of failure, and a lot of people searching for comfort, peace, hope, and basic answers to help ease their pain. At the root of most of the pain in this world is the same problem mankind has always faced: sin.
But the good news is that God didn’t leave us without an answer. He gave us Jesus.
That truth is the real reason behind everything we as Christians should do. Most of us have more of a platform than we realize, and our real purpose with that platform, no matter the size, should be pointing people toward hope that lasts far longer than any fame or success we might measure by the world’s standards.
As we chase our dreams, we also have to guard our hearts from falling in love with the fame, the lights, the fanfare, and the accolades that sometimes come along with it. Those things can be exciting, but they were never meant to be the goal. Quantity should never overshadow quality. Scripture reminds us that with God’s help even one life can impact thousands.
As this chapter closes, I want to land on the lesson that started it all. You were created on purpose, for a purpose. And just like Jay whispered to me on the stairs that day, life is still whispering the same thing to every one of us: you’ve got two minutes. Make it count.
That wasn’t just a time limit. It was a life lesson. Because the truth is, we’re all living inside a window. We don’t know how long it is, but we do know it matters. What we do with what we are given matters. The words we choose matter. The way we love our family matters. The way we love others matters. The way we stay faithful when it is inconvenient, expensive, exhausting, and stretched thin matters.
Don’t let the world shrink what God placed inside you. Your life can make it count.
