Jason Pedersen | Utah Metal Fabricator

Barefoot in the Cave This isn’t a sermon. This isn’t a self-help book. It’s a receipt—for every mile I ran, every mountain I've summited, every prayer I didn’t say, every night I stayed alive when I didn’t want to. Some of those prayers didn’t happen because I was angry. Some because I was tired. Some because I didn’t believe anyone was listening. Sometimes all of it at once. I’m writing this because David walked out of a cave and became king. Saul walked out of a cave and became a ghost. And I walked out of a cell and became—still figuring it out. What surprised me wasn’t relief. It was the quiet. The fear that came with freedom. The numbness. The shame that didn’t stay behind when the door closed. Somewhere in all that, I noticed the difference wasn’t luck. It wasn’t talent. It wasn’t divine favoritism. It came down to four things. Not because I studied them. Not because I planned them. They’re just what surfaced when everything else was stripped away. Empathy. Self-Reflection . ...

Empathy — David Chose David was in the palace, surrounded by cedar and sandalwood, the kind of quiet that makes a man forget what consequences feel like. Everything about that place told him he was safe, untouchable. He saw Bathsheba on the roof, her skin catching the moonlight, and something small but dangerous moved inside him. Not a roar. A whisper. Take her. And he did. When she became pregnant, panic followed. Not regret. Panic. He tried to manage the situation instead of facing it. He wrote the letter to Joab, put Uriah on the front lines where arrows don’t miss, and waited for the problem to disappear. Uriah died. No parade. No relief. Just silence and the subtle sense that something had shifted under his feet. Then Nathan walked in. No threats. No guards. Just a parable. A rich man steals a poor man’s only lamb—the one he raised, the one that slept beside him—and kills it to impress his guests. David erupted. Slammed his fist down. That man deserves to die. Nathan didn’t argue....

Self-Reflection — David Chose Jerusalem was quiet that afternoon. Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful—the kind that tempts you. No battles. No enemies. No pressure. Just David on the roof, looking out over a city that belonged to him. That’s when he told Joab to count the people. Joab knew what it was immediately. He warned him. Told him it was pride. Told him it would cost lives. But David wasn’t listening for wisdom. He was listening to numbers. To proof. To the sound of his own strength echoing back at him. For a moment, he forgot the difference between being king and playing God. When the count was finished, David’s conscience finally broke through. Before the plague came, he admitted that he had sinned and acted foolishly. But the consequences still spread. Seventy thousand people died, and when David saw the angel nearing Jerusalem, his reflection deepened into something more painful. He no longer saw only his own failure. He saw innocent people carrying the cost of a decis...

Accountability — David Chose David was hiding in a cave. It was damp and cold, the kind that settles into your bones and makes everything feel slower. Outside, Saul’s men were calling out, searching. Inside, David could hear Saul’s footsteps, close enough to recognize the sound of his belt, close enough to know this was the moment. Saul had unknowingly walked into the same cave where David and his men were hiding. David’s men saw the moment as permission. The man hunting him was suddenly vulnerable, close enough to touch, and no one outside would have known what happened. David crept forward with his blade and cut a corner from Saul’s robe. Then his conscience struck him. Instead of killing Saul, he cut the corner of his robe. Just enough to prove he could have gone further. Just enough to know the choice was real. For a second, he felt the pull to finish it, to take control completely. But he didn’t. He put the weapon down and walked back out into the light holding that scrap of fabri...

Transcendence — David Chose Look, I get why this hits me. Because I’ve felt that kind of empty. David’s son Absalom—his own kid—turns on him. Takes the throne. Sleeps his women right out where everyone can see. Not privately. Publicly. On the roof. In daylight. It’s not just rebellion. It’s humiliation. It’s a statement: You are finished. The city flips. Advisors defect. Men he trusted start choosing sides. The whisper spreads faster than truth ever does—“God’s done with him.” David doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even grab shoes. He walks out barefoot. And a king does not go barefoot. Not in that culture. Not ever. Kings are robed. Elevated. Carried. Protected from the ground itself. Bare feet meant mourning. Shame. Surrender. It meant you were stripped of status. He chooses it. Head covered. Weeping. Dirt cutting into his skin with every step down the Mount of Olives. The people around him crying too. This isn’t theatrical. This is collapse. He still has loyal men. He sti...

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of them. Some of the clearest, warmest memories I have are from those early days—small kids with big eyes, tiny hands clumsily scooping rice and scattering tortilla chips like confetti, completely enamored with their balloon animals. We were in Midway, eating at Tarahumara, and afterward, they each took turns getting their faces painted by the local clown. I can still picture how still they sat, completely mesmerized, proud of their designs when it was done. Those moments are etched in my mind—not because it was dramatic, but because it was real. Joyful. Pure. They were so little—maybe two, maybe four—but even then, they carried a kind of quiet magic. Just being near them made me feel like I had a purpose. That love didn’t vanish with time. It didn’t fade with silence. It’s still here—steady and stubborn. A lot went wrong. Maybe from the outside, it looks like I moved on. But the truth is, I just learned to carry the weight dif...