Through My Eyes

Through My Eyes

Tim Tebow with Nathan Whitaker

Dedication

To all those who have been told that they couldn’t achieve their dreams . . .

Contents

Since I first started
playing high school football, a lot has been written about me. Some true, some not so true. Some positive, some not so positive. And some of it claiming to even know my mind-set and motivation.

It’s not always the easiest thing to be the center of so much spilled ink. You read glowing things, and it doesn’t feel deserved. You read things that are critical, and it cuts you to the bone. It’s because of both those extremes of others’ opinions that I felt it the natural thing to do to tell my story, written from my perspective. It also seemed like the right thing to do—perhaps in many instances to simply set the record straight—sharing my story as I see it, as I remember it, including my actual mind-set and motivation. Sharing it all—what is true and actually happened. Some of it positive, and some perhaps, still, not so positive. That’s the nature of truth. But all of it is my story.

Through my eyes.

In addition, the sheer amount that has been written about me also seems to indicate that, for whatever reason, a great number of people have a significant interest in me. In some respects that is very flattering. I’d guess that any one of us would be flattered by that level of interest. However, my parents always told me, from an early age, that we
all
have the ability to influence others, whether through our words or actions, or both. They always added that, besides possessing the ability, we also have the responsibility to use it in a positive, encouraging, and uplifting way—a platform. Who knows? Maybe my platform will be the same in five years; maybe not. One thing I’m confident of is that the Lord already knows the answer to that, and He has a plan for it all. That is something I’ve learned to have the utmost assurance of and faith in—His daily, weekly, monthly, total and eternal plan for our lives.

Therefore I have learned that, though God is in control of the big picture, I am responsible for how I use my platform, whatever its size—at this moment in time—to influence others. Or whatever my age. Or wherever I am, or no matter what is going on in my life at any time. I have a platform that He can use for His good purposes and perhaps even the good of others—today.

We all know of people who thought they could do it (whatever “it” is) tomorrow. We have all procrastinated in such a way, and often to our personal regret. It happens time and again, putting off things that we convince ourselves might be better, more meaningful, more appropriate for another time. So often that better time either never comes or really isn’t better or more appropriate after all. And then, sadly, the window of opportunity—to do something great—closes. Here’s something else that I haven’t always grasped but which in the last few years I have come to understand in my own life, and which now burns in my heart for others to also recognize and realize: we all have stories to share. We all have life experiences that can bless the lives of others. Whoever we are. Wherever we find ourselves. Whatever we are involved in, no matter our age or station in life. Stories that, when shared with others, can make a positive difference in the world.

As I tell my story, I hope that you will see that its true focus is on God and on those eternal values that He holds before us as beacons and benchmarks, to help us live lives of abundance that will ultimately glorify Him, while also lifting and bettering the lives of His children everywhere.

What it all boils down to is that if there’s one kid who keeps pushing to attain his dreams, or . . .

if there’s one dad who accepts the saving grace of Christ and changes his whole family, or . . .

if there’s one person who sees my mistakes, realizes that we all fall short, and keeps pressing on, or . . .

if there’s someone who agrees that Christians don’t have to be weak, either in mind, body, or soul, then undertaking this project was the right thing to do, regardless of what the world thinks is the “right time” to write a memoir.

God challenges us to change the world. And to accomplish this, He asks us to change it
one life at a time
.

I appreciate that you are taking this journey alongside me, and I pray that as we take this journey together, you will feel the Lord’s presence along the way and that you will let Him cover you with His grace and power.

I also pray that in this journey you and I may discover that not only our lives but the lives of others are better because they were touched by something we have shared together.

Through my eyes.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

—P
SALM 23:1

My head
was killing me.

It had been a full day already, but as if that weren’t enough, now my head was splitting in two. The timing could have been better. I was in New York City for the presentation of the Heisman Trophy and I’d spent most of the day exploring New York with my family and friends. But it had taken its toll. A migraine had set in; I guess the travel and schedule had brought it on. I had been traveling non-stop, it seemed, since the conclusion of the regular season a week earlier. I had been blessed enough to win several awards already, including the ones that I was the most proud of, several first-team Academic All-American teams.

The ceremony took place on the periphery of Times Square, at the Nokia Theater, as it was then called. There were about twenty of the 2,100 in attendance on December 10, 2008, who were pretty nervous for me. Those twenty—my parents, siblings and spouses, close friends, Coach Urban Meyer and Coach Mickey Marotti from the University of Florida—had been on hand to support me throughout the entire season, as always, in good times and bad.

Statistically, there had been more good than bad that season. I’d thrown for over 2,500 yards with 28 touchdowns and 2 interceptions. I’d also rushed for 564 yards and had 12 touchdowns. But more important, as a team, we’d seen far more good than bad as well. We were 12–1 and had only had one close game in the last two months—all of them wins.

Of course, Colt McCoy and Sam Bradford, both of whom were invited by the Downtown Athletic Club and were seated beside me on the front row, also had great seasons.

We hadn’t played either team, yet. We would be facing Oklahoma and Sam Bradford in the BCS National Championship game a month after the ceremony.

Finally, the moment arrived, and none too soon. As the ceremony unfolded, my head was hurting more and more, and I was feeling nauseated.

The announcement came from the podium, in a moment that none of us would ever forget.

“The Downtown Athletic Club presents the 2008 Heisman Trophy to . . .

Sam Bradford, University of Oklahoma.”

My phone began vibrating and wouldn’t stop for hours. Texts and voicemails from teammates and coaches, all to the effect that we would take it to Oklahoma in the championship game. I wasn’t paying attention to the phone, though, as Sam accepted the award—the pounding in my head had continued to intensify.

Finally, at a break, I headed out to the bathroom to run cold water over my face. On the way, I passed Coach Meyer and Coach Marotti, and I could feel the intensity of their disappointment and anger as I approached. They were obviously biased in my favor, and were two of my biggest advocates.

I caught their eye and mouthed two words.

“Game on.”

We know that God causes all things to work together for

good to those who love God, to those who are called

according to His purpose.

—Romans 8:28

My dad was preaching
in a remote village in the Philippines in 1986. As
The Jesus Film
played on a large, homemade screen hanging between two coconut trees, he became heavily burdened by the millions of babies being aborted in America. While weeping over the gigantic loss of human life, my dad began to pray, “Father, if you want another preacher in this world, you give him to me. You give me Timmy, and I will raise him to be a preacher.”

Dad returned home to Mindanao, Philippines where our family was living, and the next morning at breakfast he told our family about his prayer and invited them to join him in praying for Timmy. At first, Mom was not as excited as my four siblings, but after a few days, she began praying along with the rest of my family—for me—Timothy, which means, “honoring God.”

From the start, it was a difficult pregnancy with a great deal of pain and bleeding. A number of times they were certain they had lost me. Mom and Dad went to the best doctor in their area of Mindanao and listened to her lay out their options—in her opinion—for how to save my mom’s life.

After examining my mother, the doctor spoke in a slow monotone.

“An abortion is the only way to save your life.”

According to her, the “mass of fetal tissue” or “a tumor”—me—had to go.

That is how the doctor viewed me, simply a mass of fetal tissue.  It was not an isolated view then, and it isn’t an isolated or novel view today. Or maybe she just called me that to toughen us up for the names I would be called the first time I played at LSU.

My parents walked out of her office, shocked and a bit numb, but resolute in what course they would take. My mom’s strongest recollection of those moments, which must have been overwhelming for her, was an unexpected and indescribable peace. God’s peace, she later told me, is what sustained her through the pain, bleeding, and uncertainty of the next eight months of her pregnancy.

Miraculously, later on in the pregnancy, a surprise blessing occurred. The bleeding subsided, leaving her able to fly, along with my siblings, to Manila. There, at the Makati Medical Center, she met with an American trained doctor. It was the first time she’d seen a doctor since the “mass of fetal tissue” consultation.

In the delivery room, my parents tell me that I entered the world without much fanfare, followed immediately by a blood clot that was bigger than I was.

The attending physician spoke first to my dad, “Mr. Tebow, your child is a miracle baby. I can’t explain how it happened, but despite all odds, he beat them. Only a small part of the placenta was attached, but it was just enough to keep your baby nourished all these months.”

My mom, dad, and family were so grateful for my safe arrival and thanked the Lord for His protection of both my mom and me. But the drama was not over yet—for either of us.

That first week, I lost weight instead of gaining it and had to remain in the hospital. My parents asked our friends and family in America to pray that I would grow big and strong. I guess their prayers were answered.

Mom also struggled physically and needed ongoing care. The staff at Makati Medical Center provided the expert care both of us needed. Mom had surgery when I was a week old, and she finally began to recover after the health challenges of many months. The doctor told my parents that if we had not come to Manila, Mom probably would not have survived my birth.

We are all grateful Mom survived the pregnancy and childbirth. We have met families whose mothers gave their lives in childbirth for the lives of their children. We also know of children who went through normal pregnancies as well as difficult ones and did not end up thriving or even surviving the birth process at all. My parents knew that Mom might not survive, but they trusted God with her pregnancy. Trusting God is how they started their marriage, and how they have continued to this day. My dad always tells us that faith is like a muscle. You trust God for the small things and when He comes through, your muscle grows. This enables you to trust God for the bigger things, in fact, all things.

And while they waited for me to be born, my mom and brothers and sisters would sing Bible verses together. Mom always believed that putting verses to tunes helped us to learn and retain them. Later, they taught me these verses as well:

Wait for the Lord, be strong and let your heart take courage. Wait for the Lord, wait for the Lord. I wait for the Lord, my soul does wait. And in His Word do I hope.

—P
SALM 27:14; 130:5

My unusual birth story has been important to our family for many reasons. Of course, we are so grateful that God’s plan included Mom’s and my survival. It also provided a deeper connection to one another, since all my family prayed specifically for me. The story has also given us a platform to share with others a variety of spiritual applications, including the faithfulness of God. And the fact that it all occurred in the Philippines made the land and its people all the more meaningful to us.

My story really began when my parents met at the University of Florida. They got married after they graduated and headed off to grad school to prepare for ministry. In 1976, they moved back to Jacksonville, Florida, where Dad had several ministry positions, and Mom had four children. While Dad was pastoring a church, he went on a mission trip to the Philippines, and he fell in love with the Filipino people. Not long after he returned, both Mom and Dad sensed a clear calling from the Lord to return there as missionaries.  

In October of 1985, Dad, Mom, and my siblings (Christy, Katie, Robby, and Peter, who were nine, seven, four, and one respectively) left Florida for the Philippines. God had not even put the smallest of thought in my dad’s or mom’s mind about me. After living in Manila for a month, my family moved to General Santos City, on the more primitive southern island of Mindanao. It was tough for my mom when they first arrived, with the many challenges of a new culture, very little contact with friends and family, and homeschooling four young children, while Dad immersed himself in ministry, traveling throughout the islands preaching and planting churches. 

My first couple of years living in the Philippines were much more uneventful than the circumstances and events surrounding my birth. At least they were for me, anyway. I guess that my sister Katie was responsible for some of that as she was acting as my second mom even though she was only eight. She insisted on carrying me everywhere I went. At the time, I was growing and gaining weight quickly, which was probably a result of all those prayers on my behalf. Poor Katie. She ended up having to have surgery for a double hernia before we returned to the States, which everyone, to this day, blames me for.