Echo Valor Podcast with David Burnell

Dragged to the Deep is a raw, first-person chapter from Built by Fire: Hearing God in the Middle of the Flames by David Burnell.

In the frozen depths of Fremont Lake in Wyoming, David Burnell took part in a recovery operation that would test the outer limits of human endurance and spiritual obedience. High in the mountains and fed by glacial runoff, the lake was deep, black, and unforgiving. An aircraft attempting a touch-and-go maneuver slammed into the water, disintegrating on impact and scattering wreckage near a steep underwater drop-off that plunged into depths far beyond safe human reach. Two airmen were lost.

Called in as an instructor with Dive Rescue International, Burnell was assigned to lift-bag operations—descending repeatedly into near-black water to secure cables, inflate air bags, and raise the wreckage in stages before it could slide into the abyss. The mission followed three non-negotiable priorities: ensuring all divers returned home safely, recovering the fallen if possible, and retrieving the aircraft and hazardous materials.

During one of these deep descents, Burnell encountered one of the airmen still entangled in the wreckage. Conventional wisdom—and the counsel of a more senior diver—said extraction was too dangerous. The wreck was under tension. The weather was deteriorating. The team was exhausted.

Yet in that moment, Burnell felt a clear, quiet spiritual prompting—one not born of adrenaline or pride, but of purpose:

Bring him home.

Acting on that impression, Burnell carefully freed the airman and held him close. Almost immediately, the added weight overwhelmed his buoyancy. Despite fully inflating his dry suit and buoyancy compensator, he began to sink. The depth increased. The pressure mounted. The choice became stark—let go and survive, or hold on and trust that help would come.

He held on.

At the critical moment, another diver appeared and added just enough lift to arrest the descent. Together, they stabilized and began a slow ascent, suspended between darkness below and light above. The airman reached the surface. The family would have closure. The mission would not fail.

In the aftermath, it became clear that conditions were deteriorating rapidly. Had Burnell not acted when he did, the operation would have been aborted, and both the wreckage and the fallen airmen would have been lost forever. What had appeared risky was, in fact, precisely timed.

Dragged to the Deep is not a story of heroism, but of obedience under pressure. It is a testimony of learning when the Holy Ghost urges action—and when it later invites rest. It is a witness that divine guidance often comes quietly, aligning compassion, timing, and courage at the exact moment they are needed.

This true account from the life of David Burnell appears in Built by Fire: Hearing God in the Middle of the Flames, a book of lived experiences where faith is tested in extreme environments and refined through obedience. It reminds us that God does not always remove the weight—but He magnifies those who listen, act, and trust Him in the depths.

If you have listened to or read this book, PLEASE consider a review https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/?ie=UTF8&channel=glance-detail&asin=B0GFPYZP9R#

Gravity and Grace is a faith-centered exploration of how to hear God clearly and make wise decisions when life feels heavy and the way forward is uncertain. Written from lived experience rather than theory, this book reflects on the tension between pressure and peace, strength and surrender, and the quiet moments where revelation changes everything.

Listen to the theme song

Drawing on decades of experience in military service, emergency rescue operations, humanitarian missions, and leadership under stress, David Burnell shares deeply personal stories in which decisions carried real consequences. These experiences are not offered as spectacle or memoir, but as teaching moments—illustrations of how clarity often comes not through force or urgency, but through stillness, obedience, and humility.

At the heart of the book is a simple, enduring pattern that guides every chapter: seek, hear, do, and share. Burnell explores what it means to seek God intentionally in a noisy world, how to recognize His voice when the senses fail, how obedience sometimes requires restraint rather than action, and how sharing testimony becomes a force multiplier for faith. Each chapter concludes with practical reflection and application, inviting readers to slow down, listen honestly, and apply what they learn in their own lives.

Gravity and Grace speaks directly to readers living in a season of overwhelm—when information is constant, expectations are heavy, and decisions feel urgent. The book addresses modern anxiety through ancient principles, drawing on scripture, personal revelation, and quiet discipline rather than fear-based motivation. It offers reassurance that peace is possible even when answers come one step at a time.

While written especially with youth and young adults in mind, the message resonates across generations. Parents, mentors, faith leaders, and anyone navigating transition, responsibility, or uncertainty will find encouragement in its steady, grounded tone. This is not a call to try harder or move faster. It is an invitation to pause, listen carefully, and move forward with trust.

Ultimately, Gravity and Grace affirms that while mortality carries real weight, no one walks alone. When decisions are guided by revelation and grace is allowed to lead, clarity comes—not all at once, but enough to take the next faithful step.

Find this and other episodes from the Echo Valor Podcast by searching “Echo Valor Podcast” on your favorite podcast platform. You can also discover original music by searching “Echo Valor Music” on your favorite streaming platform, and explore books and written works by searching “David Burnell” on Amazon to visit his author page.

This episode introduces Gravity and Grace, a book by David Burnell, and opens with the pivotal experience that inspired the book.

In Under the Ice, Burnell recounts a real rescue operation that became a defining moment in his life. With visibility gone and pressure mounting beneath the ice, training, experience, and determination were no longer enough. What mattered most in that moment was not how hard he could push forward—but whether he would listen.

The quiet warning he received during that dive changed how Burnell understood obedience, decision-making, and personal revelation. That moment became the foundation for Gravity and Grace, a book centered on the tension between responsibility and restraint, strength and surrender, and the grace that meets people when they stop striving and begin listening.

This chapter serves as both the book's opening and a window into its central theme: learning to hear God clearly when life feels heavy and the way forward is uncertain. It is not just a story about a rescue—it is about identity, humility, and the courage required to step back when everything says to press on.

For listeners new to this work, this chapter offers a meaningful introduction. For those already familiar, it marks the beginning of the journey.

Written Story:

Mortality has gravity.

Not the cute, metaphorical gravity we use in talks because it sounds poetic. I mean the real kind—the weight that presses on your chest when the world gets loud, when the future gets foggy, when you’re trying to be brave but your body is already acting like it knows something your pride won’t admit yet.

Sometimes that weight shows up as anxiety. Sometimes it shows up as anger. Sometimes it shows up as that steady, private exhaustion no one sees because you’re still smiling and still showing up and still saying, “I’m fine.”

And sometimes… it shows up as two feet of ice between you and air.

I learned something about resilience under the ice in South Dakota—something I’ve never forgotten—because that day I wasn’t the hero people imagine when they hear “rescue diver.” I wasn’t standing tall on a podium collecting praise. I was just a man with a mission, trapped inside a moment of pressure, trying to decide whether I was going to obey the Spirit or obey the story I was telling myself.

The call

It was April at Sheridan Lake outside Rapid City. The ice was thick—about two feet—but it wasn’t trustworthy ice. You could feel that when you walked in. The kind of ice that looks solid until it decides it isn’t.

Two twin brothers—eighteen or nineteen years old—were out there with a dune buggy rail, jumping pressure ridges like the lake was a playground.

And then the lake swallowed them.

I was on a trail when my radio and my pager went off. I was dehydrated, tired, and not expecting a life-and-death decision before the day was over. Half our dive team was out of town. I was an instructor for Dive Rescue International and vice president of the local team, which sounds impressive until you realize it means: when things go sideways, people look at you.

By the time I got to the scene, I watched a Boy Scout troop forming a human chain from solid ice to the hole in the ice, grabbing one of the brothers who had surfaced after about four minutes. That brother lived.

The other one didn’t come up.

And time was doing what time always does in emergencies—moving too fast and too slow at once.

The dive team didn’t get rolling until almost fifty-five minutes into the incident. In the old days, an hour was when rescue often shifted into recovery. But the medical direction that day pushed us longer. We stayed in rescue mode. More urgency. More pressure. More risk.

And then came my decision: do I stay on the surface and manage divers, or do I go under?

With senior divers out of town and only a few operational people available, I chose to dive.

That choice wasn’t just tactical. It was personal. It was identity. It was the story: I’m the leader. I’m the instructor. I’m the one who goes.

And that story, if you’re not careful, will get you killed.

Black water

Under-ice diving is called overhead diving. It’s not recreational. It’s not a fun story to tell later. It’s the abyss, even at sixty feet, because it doesn’t take much for your mind to understand this truth:

If something goes wrong, you don’t get to swim straight up to the air.

The first diver went down. His name was Jerry. He surfaced after about five minutes, eyes rolling back, unconscious—no words, no explanation. We loaded him on a gurney, then a four-wheeler, and hauled him across the ice to an ambulance waiting two miles away.

Jerry never dove again.

The second diver—Rob—was one of the bravest men I’ve ever worked with. He had issues with his mouthpiece fitting. We would modify his gear so he could dive anyway. He was tough like that—quiet courage.

But when Rob came up, he said only this: “It’s no good. It’s no good. It’s no good.” Then he terminated his dive and wouldn’t talk about it.

Two divers. Two aborts. Two messages my pride didn’t want to hear.

So now it was me.

I stood at the edge of a new hole we had cut, thirty feet from the original breakthrough. We don’t use the same hole. The original hole is chaos—broken ice, bad edges, panic energy. We cut a clean hole and run search patterns toward the problem. That’s doctrine. That’s survival.

I started my descent and looked up at the surface one last time. I saw the scout troop. I saw surface personnel. I saw the media. And I felt something ugly rise in me. I got mad at those boys.

Not righteous, protective anger. Just raw frustration. Why would you do this? I had five kids. I had a wife. Why did you decide to be dumb on the ice today? Why do I have to risk my life because you treated the lake like a stunt ramp?

That thought was the opposite of grace.

And it’s important I tell you that, because resilience doesn’t begin with pretending you don’t have darkness. It begins with admitting you do—and then choosing what to do with it.

Then my mind shifted. The mission came forward. There was still a chance. A slim one. But a chance. So I went down.

When your senses fail

The moment my face mask passed the ice shelf, the world changed.

There was no light. No reference. No comfort. No “up” that felt real. Just blackness so complete it made your imagination start working overtime.

I tried to check my gauges. I brought them up to my mask. I took my light and pressed it to the faceplate—right onto the gauges. I couldn’t see a thing. No air reading. No depth. No time. Three pieces of data we track so we don’t die—gone.

I heard surface yelling over the communications in my helmet: “Keep going, keep going.” We were in rescue mode. Everyone wanted the miracle.

But I was having a moment under the ice. The kind you don’t admit in a highlight reel.

Two divers had just quit forever. I didn’t know exactly why yet, but my body knew. The feeling down there wasn’t fear. It was something deeper.

A sense of impending doom.

And in our doctrine—yes, actual doctrine we teach divers—when you have that feeling, you don’t dive. You don’t press it. You don’t negotiate with it. You don’t try to be brave in a way that makes you stupid.

Because sometimes that “doom” feeling is your brain’s way of noticing danger. And sometimes it’s the Spirit.

Then it got worse.

My regulator started to free-flow. Ice crystals built up, and my air began pouring out—hissing like a warning I couldn’t ignore. Positive pressure gear doesn’t just shut off; it dumps. Which sounds better until you realize it means your air is leaving you like a faucet you can’t turn off.

Under the ice, you come up with a thousand pounds of air. You go down with three thousand. That’s the rule.

But I couldn’t read my gauges. I couldn’t see. And now I was losing air.

I did what you do in that situation: I tried to clear it—banging the mask, breaking up ice crystals, trying to get the flow under control.

Surface kept pushing me: keep going.

And then something happened that changed the entire moment. I stopped being angry at those boys. I thought about the one who didn’t come up. And my feelings changed from frustration to sorrow. Then I thought of my family.

And I realized something about missions: a mission isn’t just a task. It’s a stewardship. And stewardship doesn’t mean you throw your life away to prove you’re tough. It means you’re responsible to God for the life you’ve been given.

That’s when the Spirit came. Clear. Soft. Penetrating.

Get out.

Not loud like my voice. Not dramatic. Just unmistakable.

Get out.

And I ignored it.

I didn’t ignore it because I didn’t believe. I ignored it because the story in my head was louder than the Spirit in my soul.

I’m the instructor. I’m the vice president. I’m the guy who goes. Everyone’s watching. We’re in rescue mode. Don’t quit. Don’t let them down.

Those are the stories we tell ourselves. And sometimes they sound like virtue. Sometimes they sound like courage. Sometimes they’re just pride wearing a uniform.

The Spirit came again.

Get out.

And again, I resisted.

Because obedience is easy when it matches what you already want to do.

Obedience is harder when it costs you something—reputation, confidence, the image of being “the strong one.”

And then my mind did something I didn’t expect. I started apologizing to my family. I truly believed I was going to die.

Not because I was in combat. Not because I was being attacked. But because my own stubbornness was keeping me in a place the Lord was trying to pull me out of.

Then the Spirit came a third time—closer, sharper—not louder, but final.

I will not come and tell you a third time.

That stopped me cold.

I called the surface and tried to make it sound less personal.

“Recover the diver.”

Third-person language. A little pride is left in me, still trying to save face. They pushed back. What? Why? We’re in rescue mode.

But here’s what you need to understand about resilience: Sometimes the most courageous thing you will ever do is abort the mission you wanted… because God is calling you to a different one.

I insisted. And they hauled me out.

Grace in the decision

After I surfaced, my friend Mark went down.

Mark found the boy. He was upside down, belted in, tangled near a tree, in zero visibility water. The boy was gone. We couldn’t bring him back alive.

Mark also made mistakes under the ice—errors that could have killed him. And when he came out, he was rattled. Shaken. The kind of shaken that doesn’t show on the outside until you’re alone later, and it hits you.

When he finally surfaced, I was the first face he saw. That mattered to me because when I came out of the ice, I didn’t get what I needed. I got pressure, noise, and impatience. I got people pushing me to be the version of myself they wanted, instead of honoring who I knew I was and my decision to listen to that final voice.

So I knelt there on the ice for Mark. Not as a hero. As a brother. And I learned something that day I’ve carried for years: Grace isn’t just what God gives you when you fail. Grace is what God gives you to obey. Grace is what shows up when your senses are overloaded, and your pride is loud, and your mission feels urgent, and the world is watching—yet the Spirit says, quietly, this is not the way. And you listen.

That day under the ice became one of the clearest lessons of my life in the pattern I’m going to share with you in this book: Seek. Hear. Do. Share.

I was seeking, even under stress, even without perfect clarity. I heard—three times, and I finally obeyed.

And now I’m sharing, because someone you love—maybe you—may someday be under a different kind of ice. Not literal ice. Emotional ice. Depression. Anxiety. Temptation. Pressure. The kind of darkness where you can’t read your gauges, and you can’t see the surface, and you don’t know how long you’ve been down.

And in that moment, you will need to know the difference between courage and pride. You will need to know what it feels like when the Spirit says, Get out.

And you will need to believe this truth: Mortality has gravity. But God has grace. And grace is stronger.

This chapter ends the same way the experience ended for me—not with answers shouted over the noise, but with an invitation to become still enough to listen. What saved my life under the ice wasn’t strength, experience, or rank; it was obedience born in quiet. That’s why I invite you to reflect and write—to slow down long enough to examine the story you are telling yourself right now. That story, whether shaped by pride, fear, expectation, or pressure, has real power. It can either soften your heart toward trust and change, or harden it against the very grace meant to guide you. As you write, consider where you have recently felt the Spirit prompt, warn, or nudge you. How you responded matters—not as a source of shame, but as a source of learning. Then ask where grace is most needed in your life right now, and what it would look like to choose humility, patience, or faith instead of reacting out of fear.

I also ask you to practice something simple this week, but profoundly instructive: ten minutes of intentional stillness each day. No phone. No music. No background noise. Begin with a plain, honest prayer—“Father, what do You want me to do?”—and then sit quietly. Write down what comes without judging it or trying to force clarity. Revelation rarely comes all at once; it comes quietly, line upon line, when we make room for it. As the Lord promised, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7). That way often begins in stillness—and ends in grace.

Find this and other episodes from the Echo Valor Podcast by searching “Echo Valor Podcast” on your favorite podcast platform. You can also discover original music by searching “Echo Valor Music” on your favorite streaming platform, and explore books and written works by searching “David Burnell” on Amazon to visit his author page.

New release, rewritten entirely, 27 December 2025

In the hidden war of Burma, where the jungle swallows armies and landmines outnumber crops, one humanitarian mission became a journey of faith, danger, and unexpected brotherhood.

When former Air Force veteran David Burnell answered a call to enter the denied territories of Burma (Myanmar), he expected heat, hardship, and risk. What he did not expect was how deeply the people would carve themselves into his heart—the Karen tribe, fighting for survival against a half-million-man regime; warriors missing limbs who still stood watch on one leg; a British scout now reduced to begging; a pig named Herman who became a companion; and a small boy with a spinning top who became his shadow.

This book is the accurate account of that mission.

Alongside a Special Forces legend, a 40-year medic and Vietnam veteran, Burnell crossed the border with no sanction from any Government and no promise of rescue. Their task: complete the fourth phase of a covert combat-medic program for the Karen, a Christian people hunted since World War II.

What followed was a week in the jungle that felt like a lifetime.

Dragon boats through drug-running waters

Booming monsoon storms over bamboo hooches used as classrooms

Landmine belts, where every misplaced footstep could end a man’s life

Nights on the hooch railing as John shared memories of Vietnam, including the first man he ever killed

A beggar who once scouted for the British and offered what little he had—a boiled egg

A child named No Do Tu, who said nothing, yet spoke straight to the soul

This is not a war story about fighting.It is a war story about showing up.

About choosing compassion when fear is justified.About being willing to cross borders that other men won’t.About believing that courage can belong to ordinary people.About faith, carrying you where training cannot.

If we genuinely believe in love, what are we willing to do about it?

In the Land of Broken Rivers is a firsthand account of service, sacrifice, and the quiet heroism of a forgotten people. It is a testimony of spiritual prompting, a meditation on what it costs to keep going, and a reminder that sometimes the smallest hands leave the deepest marks on a life.

This story is real.This mission happened.And every step was worth it.

Find this and other episodes from the Echo Valor Podcast by searching “Echo Valor Podcast” on your favorite podcast platform. You can also discover original music by searching “Echo Valor Music” on your favorite streaming platform, and explore books and written works by searching “David Burnell” on Amazon to visit his author page.

Some experiences mark you forever.

Years ago, in a small, struggling town on the northern shore of Nova Scotia, I witnessed firsthand how close darkness can press—and how fiercely the light of Christ pushes back.

From a night when evil showed its face…to a humble man named Bernie whose burned body and battered heart still opened to the Spirit…

to a cold creek where a covenant was made…and finally, to a graveside where peace replaced sorrow—

…I learned that obedience is protection, faith is power, and no place is too dark for the Holy Ghost to enter.

This is more than a story—it’s a testimony.And it’s available now, in both written and audio format.

“Bernie’s Last Call” is just one of many true accounts included in my book: 📘 Built by Fire: Hearing the Voice of God in the Flames —a collection of real moments where divine intervention, struggle, and sacrifice shaped my life and strengthened my faith.

🕯️ Light does win. Every. Single. Time.

Read or listen now on Echo Valor.

#BuiltByFire #MissionaryLife #FaithOverFear #LightOverDarkness #HolyGhost #NovaScotia #Conversion #Testimony #ChristHeals #EchoValor #ChristianInspiration

Full Story:

A Missionary Moment Where Light Overcame Darkness

Some of the most sacred moments of my life as a missionary came not from numbers or programs, but from encounters in which heaven and hell felt uncomfortably close.

One of those moments unfolded in a small, weather-beaten town in Nova Scotia called Pictou.

Pictou is steeped in history. It sits on the northern shore, not far from Prince Edward Island, and traces its roots back to Scottish settlers who were driven ashore by a violent storm. They named the place Pictou, and the land still carried that rugged Highland spirit when I arrived. It was a proud but struggling area—economically poor, spiritually resistant, and deeply rooted in tradition. The adversary had a firm hold there.

I felt it immediately.

I had been in the mission field for only about 4 months when I was assigned as a district leader. I was young, inexperienced, and responsible for a vast territory spanning the county and reaching into remote coastal communities. Two elders served far away in New Glasgow—nearly a hundred kilometers south—leaving just us in Pictou.

There had not been a baptism in that area for a long time.

When Darkness Shows Its Face

We lived in an apartment above what had once been the mayor’s mansion—a grand building now faded with age. One night, long after midnight, we experienced something I will never forget.

We were not merely uncomfortable. We were driven out.

What occurred was physical, audible, and visual. It was not imagination. It was not fear. It was not fatigue. The presence was unmistakable—aggressive, oppressive, and deliberate. We left the apartment in the middle of the night and did not return until daylight.

I will not recount the details. Some things are not meant to be sensationalized. But I learned that night that evil is real—and that it does not always hide quietly.

The next day, I called our mission president and explained what had happened. He listened carefully, then spoke with calm authority.

He reminded me of the Savior’s words when His disciples failed to cast out a spirit:

“Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.” (Matthew 17:21)

He asked if we had been obedient. We had been. He then instructed us to fast, pray, and dedicate the apartment.

We did. And the darkness retreated.

President Boyd K. Packer once taught: “Evil spirits have no power over us except what we invite them to take.”

That experience taught me that obedience is protection—and that priesthood authority, exercised humbly and faithfully, brings light where darkness seeks dominion.

Bernie Opens the Door

A few weeks later, while tracking, we knocked on a door that changed everything.

A man named Bernie answered.

His home was poor, but his spirit was open. He wore what looked like a tan wetsuit covering most of his body. It wasn’t clothing—it was medical compression gear. Bernie had suffered extensive burns while running into his burning home to rescue his children. He survived, but the scars marked him deeply.

So did his life.

He was separated from his wife. He carried pain, loss, and quiet courage. And from the first lesson, he felt the Spirit.

Bernie loved the Book of Mormon. He believed Joseph Smith was a prophet. He understood the doctrines of Christ not as abstractions, but as lifelines. The Holy Ghost bore witness to him again and again.

“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” (Moroni 10:5)

That promise was fulfilled in Bernie’s humble living room.

A Creek, a Branch, and a Covenant

Bernie was baptized in a small creek in Pictou. We had to dig rocks out of the streambed just to make it deep enough for immersion. There was no ward—only a tiny branch of about nine faithful souls.

But heaven was there.

As Bernie rose from the water, clean and new, I knew something profound had happened. The adversary who had fought so hard to keep that area closed had lost a soul.

President Russell M. Nelson has said: “The ultimate triumph over evil is achieved through faith in Jesus Christ.”

I saw that triumph in a cold Nova Scotia creek.

The Call No Missionary Wants

Over a year later, near the end of my mission, I was serving as an assistant to the mission president, traveling throughout the mission. One day, I received a call from my former companion, Elder Birch—the same companion who had stood with me during that night of darkness.

He was crying. “Elder Burnell,” he said, “where are you?” I told him I was in Prince Edward Island for a conference. Then he said the words that still echo in my heart:

“Bernie was killed.” Bernie had been cutting a Christmas tree in the hills. His small diesel Rabbit was parked along the road. A massive logging truck struck his car, killing him instantly.

I felt sorrow—but also peace.

One Last Visit

Near the end of my mission, I returned to Pictou one final time. I felt impressed to visit the cemetery near the hospital, though I didn’t know precisely where Bernie was buried.

I stood at the entrance and prayed: “Father, please guide me.”

I drove slowly through the rows and stopped right in front of me.

Bernie’s headstone was being set that very day. It was still partially wrapped, resting at the foot of the grave.

I knelt. I prayed. I wept. I thanked God. I thanked Him that we had not retreated when darkness pressed in. I thanked Him that Bernie had heard the truth. I thanked Him that the Holy Ghost had prevailed.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland taught: “However many chances you think you have missed, however many mistakes you feel you have made… I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love.”

Bernie had reached that love.

Light Wins

I do not know what Bernie’s life would have looked like had we turned back that night. But I do know this:

When he died, he died with Christ. The Holy Ghost overcame darkness to teach truth—and then returned to comfort those who mourned.

That is the power of the Spirit. That is the mercy of God. And that is why missionaries keep knocking—even when the night presses close.

Because light always has the final word.

There are fires in life you don’t choose.

Moments where everything you’ve built, everything you believe, and everything you think you control… gets tested.

For David Burnell, those fires came in many forms—conflict zones, rescue missions, humanitarian crises, and the unseen battles that follow when the world goes quiet.

But this is not just a story about surviving those moments.

It’s about what he heard in the middle of them.

Because sometimes… It’s only in the fire that you finally learn how to listen.

Through the Fire, I Heard Him is a raw and deeply personal account of a life lived under pressure—where decisions carry weight, outcomes matter, and the cost is real.

From high-risk operations to moments of profound loss…From chaos in the field to silence in the aftermath…From strength built on training to strength discovered through faith…

This book takes you beyond the surface of experience and into the place where meaning is forged.

This is for those who have:

* Walked through conflict—internal or external

* Carried responsibility when others stepped back

* Faced loss that changed them

* Wondered where God was in the middle of it all

David Burnell doesn’t offer easy answers or polished conclusions.

What he offers is something far more honest:

A life tested in real fire…A faith that didn’t come easy…And the realization that the voice you’re searching for is often not found in the noise

but in the moments when everything else falls away.

If you’ve ever been through something that changed you…

If you’ve ever questioned, searched, or fought to keep going…

You may recognize more of your own story in these pages than you expect.

And you may begin to hear it too.

On November 11, 2025, David and Jeff talk candidly about loss, survivor’s guilt, moral injury, and why reaching out to one buddy today could save a life. Stories span WWI letters to modern SOF, Korea, Iraq, Haiti, and the homefront—plus practical ways to start healing now.

Healing isn’t neat. It’s messy, honest, and most of all—shared. In Healing Is Hard — Helping Is Healing, veterans David Burnell and Jeffrey Denning open the door to real talk about military and first-responder life, moral injury, grief, faith, and the practical ways we move forward. From World War I “melancholy” to modern PTSD, from battlefield losses to quiet survivor’s guilt, from dark humor to daily habits—this show honors all who have “stood the post,” and offers a path: connection, purpose, and service. Whether you wore a uniform or simply love someone who did, pull up a chair. Healing hurts—but helping heals.

Advisory: contains candid discussion of trauma and combat; listener discretion advised

“The Ones Who Still Stand” is a solemn ballad by David Burnell, created for Veterans Day as a tribute to all who have served in war, in peace, and in the quiet battles that follow. It honors not just the heroes of the battlefield but those who came home carrying invisible scars. This piece speaks to the courage, sacrifice, and enduring strength of the men and women who still stand watch over freedom long after the world has moved on.There’s a sound you can only hearIn the quiet after a war.It’s not the roar of the guns,Or the cheers of a parade.It’s the sound of men and womenRemembering the faces they left behind…And learning how to live again.They came from small towns and big cities,From farms, factories, and classrooms.They traded comfort for courage,And went where others would not go.From the beaches of Normandy to the sands of Iraq,From frozen hills in Korea to jungles that swallowed the light,They carried the weight of freedomOn shoulders that never asked for praise.Some came home to crowds and waving flags.Others stepped off planes into silence.And some never came home at all.But even those who didCarried something invisible —The noise that never stops,The smell of smoke that never fades,The questions that never find an answer.Because the battle doesn’t endWhen the shooting stops.It follows you home —To empty rooms,To sleepless nights,To the quiet moments when the world forgetsBut your heart never does.And yet... they keep standing.Through pain, through memories, through years.They still serve —In classrooms, on job sites, in communities —Quietly, faithfully,Because that’s what they know how to do.They are the sentinels of our peace,The watchmen of freedom’s fire.And when the weight becomes too heavy,It’s up to us — the ones they protected —To lift them back up,To remind them that their story matters,And that the nation they built still stands with them.So this Veterans Day,We don’t just remember the battles —We remember the people.The fathers and mothers,The brothers and sisters,The friends who stood between us and the storm.Their courage bought our tomorrow.Their sacrifice shapes our peace.And even when the world moves on,They remain...The ones who still stand.To every warrior who has served in war or peace...To every guardian who still fights unseen battles...We remember you.We honor you.And we stand with you.— David A. Burnell Veterans Day 2025

Find this and other episodes from the Echo Valor Podcast by searching “Echo Valor Podcast” on your favorite podcast platform. You can also discover original music by searching “Echo Valor Music” on your favorite streaming platform, and explore books and written works by searching “David Burnell” on Amazon to visit his author page.

A relentless work of historical fiction and modern military realism, Haiti Run captures the cost of rescue, the weight of violence, and the salvation that hides inside courage.

In the aftermath of the 2010 Haitian earthquake, chaos rules the broken streets. From the ruins emerges Sergeant Savage—a former Special Operations operator turned lone rescuer who walks the line between mercy and mayhem. When a kidnapped American child vanishes into the island’s underworld, Savage and his trusted brother-in-arms, Rook, descend into a labyrinth of human traffickers, corrupt militias, and voodoo-laced warlords.

Each lead drags them deeper into darkness—gunfights in crumbling alleys, midnight raids on slave ports, knife fights lit by burning fuel drums. Savage faces evil not as legend but as flesh and blood—and confronts his own truth: to do good, he must sometimes become what good men fear.

Find this and other episodes from the Echo Valor Podcast by searching “Echo Valor Podcast” on your favorite podcast platform. You can also discover original music by searching “Echo Valor Music” on your favorite streaming platform, and explore books and written works by searching “David Burnell” on Amazon to visit his author page.

A Children’s Guide to Gun Safety — Be Brave. Be Smart. Be Safe. is a comforting, story-driven audio experience that shows kids exactly what to do if they ever see a gun—without fear or glamorization. Narrated by David Burnell, a real-life rescuer and humanitarian, this uplifting production blends friendly storytelling, simple repetition, and a memorable safety song so children remember the four essential steps:

Stop. Don’t touch. Walk away. Tell a grown-up.

In short scenes—playground, sleepover, classroom—young listeners learn to make smart, calm choices, ask trusted adults for help, and practice everyday habits of respect and kindness. A brief call-and-response Hero’s Promise reinforces confidence and responsibility, closing with a hopeful message: you don’t need a uniform to be a hero—every safe choice makes the world better.