In 2016, I crashed hard: living in a boat, strung out and evading the law like a hunted shadow. Raised in church as a kid, I'd soured on it all, especially Christianity; the hypocrisy I'd seen kept me from even stepping foot inside. My path? A string of failures: booted from the Navy, then washed out of the fire service, the dream job, leaving me lost in punk rebellion, chasing highs that only deepened the pit.
But God wouldn't let go. He met me not with fanfare, but quiet grace: through a wife, who battled to love me toward healing amid my self-sabotage, and Randy, a steadfast Christian firefighter brother who walked with me in my darkest moments, sharing coffee and faith by example, never forcing it. Jesus forgave my wreckage, mended my rage, and rooted me in His redeeming blood.
Now, I'm thriving in purpose, spreading hope, building brotherhood, and seizing doors I never imagined. From fugitive addict to free leader, church-reject to grace-bearer. No bootstrap tale; that's the cross resurrecting ruins.