Fractured Light

Table of Contents

• Introduction
• Chapter 1: The Beginning
• Chapter 2: The Hook
• Chapter 3: The Spiral
• Chapter 4: The Altar
• Chapter 5: The Lie of Marriage
• Chapter 6: The Thorn
• Chapter 7: The Collapse
• Chapter 8: The Surrender
• Chapter 9: The Arrest
• Chapter 10: Still Standing
• Chapter 11: Margins
• Conclusion: The Light That Remains

Introduction

I didn't set out to write this book. I set out to survive.

For decades, I lived in the margins—of society, of church, of my own soul. Addiction carved deep grooves into my life, and shame made sure I stayed hidden in them. I lost friendships, ministry, reputation, and nearly my family. I lost myself. And yet, somehow, I didn't lose God.

This book is not a triumph story wrapped in a bow. It's a testimony. It's the sound of grace echoing through the wreckage. It's the flicker of light that found me in jail, in addiction, in silence—and refused to go out.

The title Fractured Light comes from a truth I've come to believe: that God's light doesn't only shine through the polished and the whole. It shines through the broken. Through the cracks. Through the places we try hardest to hide. And when it does, it doesn't just illuminate—it heals.

Each chapter in this book pairs a piece of my story with a story from Scripture. Not to draw perfect parallels, but to show that brokenness is not a modern problem—and redemption is not a modern invention. God has always done His best work in the margins. In the lives of adulterers, addicts, outcasts, and doubters. In the lives of people like me. People like you.

You'll read about my early exposure to sexual addiction, my descent into secrecy and shame, my arrest, my time in jail, and the slow, sacred process of spiritual resurrection. You'll also walk alongside David, Elijah, Hosea, the bleeding woman, and the prodigal son. Their stories aren't sanitized. They're messy. But they're holy. Because God met them there.

If you're reading this and feel like you've gone too far—you haven't.

If your secrets scream louder than your prayers—He hears you.

If you think redemption is for the clean or the worthy—let my life remind you otherwise.

This book is for the ones who feel unseen.

For the ones who feel unworthy.

For the ones who think God has moved on.

He hasn't.

He's still speaking.

Still redeeming.

Still shining fractured light through fractured lives.

Welcome to the margins.

This is where resurrection begins.

Chapter 1: The Beginning

I grew up in a different time. My friends and I were expected to be out of the house every day until the streetlights came on. Then it was time to head home for homework, bath time, and supper. I spent an enormous amount of time figuring life out with my peers. We all went to church in those days, so we had a basic foundation of right and wrong; but the details were blurred by our immature logic and desires.

My parents loved me. But something in my early childhood—that I can't remember—combined with the way my brain is wired, caused me to feel unloved. For as long as I can remember I felt like I was basically alone in the world. In fairness to my parents, I was a rebellious, sassy, overly energetic child. I am certain that both of my parents did the best that they could with me. I was simply unable to receive what they were offering.

This left me vulnerable to following every whim that my mind could conceive as well as to adults who didn't have my best interest at heart.

I learned early on how to be alone. Alone in fear, joy, pain, sorrow, exploration, and boredom. My imagination would run wild with what I could have or should have said or done. I could lose myself in walking through the woods, building a coaster cart, or pretending I was Superman (which led to several sprained ankles). When I played with others in my neighborhood, the games we played always relied heavily on imagination—games like army, cowboys and Indians, and cops and robbers.

Because I never really felt like I belonged at home, I became increasingly comfortable relying on my imagination, whether I was playing with friends, or by myself. I lived in a world of wonder that existed mostly inside my head. Dealing with reality was too hard. Too painful. My imaginary world became my escape from my reality.

One of the first places this became a problem was at school. This was in the days of IQ tests in Elementary School. Unfortunately (for my imaginary world at least) I scored quite high. While I was content to spend my entire day in my own little world, my teachers—and parents—expected me to perform well in my academics. But academics required something of me… results! But I wasn't interested in results. Results came later. I was focused on now. Academics required engaging my mind on something concrete. I was more interested in living in fantasy. Academics led to grades—which for me were usually D's or F's, which led to pain. Pain that I tried hard to avoid. Or at least to find ways to endure.

My ability to endure pain was probably the hardest thing for my parents to deal with. There was a saying back then, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time." Also, a song that said, "If you're going to dance, you must pay the piper." Well, I was perfectly willing to do the time and pay the piper. In following my imaginary whims and desires, I was constantly faced with the reality of consequences. But living in the real world, with the nagging pain of loneliness and rejection, seemed worse to me than the potential consequences of my choices.

I was never connected with my extended family. I had a handful of Aunts and Uncles and a couple dozen cousins that I saw on a semi-regular basis. My brother seemed to have a beneficial relationship with most of them, but I remained distant. I found the interaction with the larger family uncomfortable. While all the cousins were running around playing tag, or Hide and Seek, I would prefer to wonder around the local woods by myself or sit in a corner somewhere with my thoughts. As a result, I never really connected with either of my parent's families.

I was never really interested in having friends. I'm not sure I actually knew what a real friend was. For me, the other children in my life were viewed more as toys. Things I could play with when the occasion suited me. But things I could just as easily discard when the fun ended. Because I enjoyed all the "toys" at my disposal, it appeared to the casual observer that I was a popular kid with lots of friends. But that was just an unintended result of my living in a world where nothing was actually real, and I made up the rules as I went along.

I became increasingly aware of all these deficiencies. And that awareness drove me deeper into myself.

Chapter 2: The Hook

When Innocence Meets the Spiral

I was nine years old when the hook was set.

It didn't feel like sin. It felt like curiosity. My friend and I were just exploring—two kids, spending long afternoons together. We didn't know what "sex" was. We just wanted to look, to touch, to discover. And so we did.

That's when Satan learned what bait would keep me coming back.

I didn't understand the weight of it then. I just knew I didn't want to get caught. My mom was a church organist, and I'd been in church since infancy. I knew the difference between right and wrong. But I didn't know why this felt wrong. I didn't know what part of it was broken. I just knew it had to stay secret.

Years passed. The visits slowed. The exploring stopped. But the spiral had begun.

By eleven, I was rubbing myself on bed sheets. One day, there was an emission. It scared me. I thought I'd broken something. But it also introduced a new kind of pleasure. And Satan sank the hook deeper.

That summer, I was raped—repeatedly—by an adult camp leader. I didn't know it then, but my life had just been rerouted. My understanding of sex, safety, and self was shattered. And I didn't tell anyone.

Later that summer, I discovered men's magazines. The images intensified the pleasure from the sheets. I couldn't get enough. Fantasy and masturbation became my refuge. My routine. My prison.

I was hooked. And I would stay hooked for decades.

Biblical Parallel: Adam and Eve

Genesis 3: The First Fall

They were naked and unashamed. Innocent. Curious. Free.

Then came the whisper: "Did God really say…?"

Then came the bite.

Then came the shame.

Adam and Eve didn't know what sin was. They just knew they weren't supposed to eat. But the fruit looked good. Pleasing. Desirable. So they reached. They tasted. And everything changed.

They hid. They covered themselves. They felt exposed.

And when God came walking in the garden, they didn't run to Him. They ran from Him.

It wasn't just disobedience—it was disconnection.

The hook was set.

And humanity has been spiraling ever since.

Reflection: The Lie of Secrecy

Sin thrives in secrecy. It doesn't need full understanding—it just needs silence.

That's how it grows. That's how it hooks. That's how it hides.

Like Adam and Eve, I didn't know what I was doing. But I knew I didn't want to be seen.

And that's the first lie sin tells us: "If they see you, they'll reject you."

But God's first question in the garden wasn't "What did you do?"

It was "Where are you?"

He wasn't hunting them. He was pursuing them.

He wasn't angry. He was heartbroken.

He didn't come to punish. He came to restore.

Even in the first fall, grace was already moving.

Invitation: Where Are You?

If you're hiding—behind shame, behind secrecy, behind silence—God is still asking the same question:

"Where are you?"

Not to condemn.

To connect.

Take a moment.

Write down what you're hiding from.

Name the hook.

Then ask God to meet you there.

Because He will.

He always does.

Chapter 3: The Spiral

When Desire Becomes a Death Trap

Adolescence didn't slow the spiral—it accelerated it.

By high school, acting out had become a daily ritual. Fantasies fueled by magazines, memories, and stories kept me hungry. And high school offered new fuel: girls who were just as curious, just as broken, just as eager to explore.

It started innocently enough—go steady, see how far I could go. But when one girl had had enough, I moved on. I wasn't looking for love. I was looking for access. And each encounter became another rung in the spiral.

I'd act out.

Feel guilt.

Cry out for forgiveness.

Promise to stop.

Then do it again.

Eventually, I found a girl willing to go all the way. And even that didn't satisfy. It only deepened the fantasy. The acting out. The shame. The cycle.

Fear of pregnancy. Fear of getting caught. Conviction of sin. None of it could break the grip.

We broke up—and so did my heart. But I didn't grieve. I medicated. Another girl. Then another. And on and on it went.

Then something shifted. A spiritual stirring. A hunger for God. I started reading my Bible. Leading in youth group. Seeking righteousness. Matthew 6:33 became my anchor: "Seek first His kingdom…"

But even as I pressed into God, the spiral didn't stop.

It just got quieter.

More deceptive.

More spiritual.

I couldn't admire a girl without objectifying her. I couldn't separate beauty from lust. I had stopped seeing souls. I only saw parts.

By graduation, I was in a full-on tailspin.

I didn't know it yet.

But God did.

Biblical Parallel: David and Bathsheba

2 Samuel 11–12: The Spiral of a King

David was a man after God's own heart.

He wrote psalms. Led armies. Loved God.

But one evening, he saw her.

Bathsheba. Beautiful. Bathing.

And he didn't look away.

He sent for her. Slept with her.

She became pregnant.

So he covered it up.

Then he killed her husband.

The spiral was swift.

Desire.

Deception.

Destruction.

And David, the worshiper, became David, the manipulator.

Until Nathan came.

Until truth pierced the spiral.

Until David broke.

"Against You, and You only, have I sinned," he cried in Psalm 51.

He didn't blame Bathsheba.

He didn't justify.

He repented.

And God forgave him.

Reflection: The Spiral Isn't the End

Addiction doesn't start with darkness.

It starts with desire.

Desire that becomes distorted.

Distortion that becomes deception.

Deception that becomes destruction.

But the spiral isn't the end.

It's the place where grace waits.

David's story didn't end in shame.

It ended in surrender.

And mine can too.

Yours can too.

God doesn't abandon us in the spiral.

He enters it.

He speaks truth into it.

He offers mercy through it.

Invitation: Name Your Spiral

Where are you spiraling?

What desire has become distortion?

Write it down.

Confess it.

Not to punish yourself—but to break the silence.

Then pray David's prayer:

"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." (Psalm 51:10)

Because the spiral doesn't have to end in shame.

It can end in surrender.

Chapter 4: The Altar

When Conviction Becomes Surrender

There wasn't an altar call.

No persuasive speech.

No emotional invitation.

Just music.

Just truth.

Just the Holy Spirit.

It was a Keith Green concert. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the song. I remember the crowd. I remember the moment—standing at the edge of the stage, overwhelmed by conviction. I had been playing games with God. And He wasn't amused.

I wasn't just addicted. I was divided.

I wanted God—but I wanted my sin too.

I wanted forgiveness—but I didn't want surrender.

That night, everything changed.

I prayed: "Father, I don't want to be interested in any other girl until I meet the one I will marry."

And I wasn't.

The weeks that followed were electric.

Bible studies. Worship gatherings. Mid-week services.

New friends. Godly friends.

No drugs. No sex. Just transformation.

I was living in light for the first time.

Then I met her.

The answer to my prayer.

She made me want to be a better Christian. A better man.

We courted. We worshiped. We dreamed.

But the spiral wasn't gone.

It was waiting.

I began fantasizing about her.

Then acting out those fantasies.

Then acting out.

Then guilt.

Then shame.

Then prayer.

Then recommitment.

The cycle had returned.

Familiar. Unforgiving.

We talked. We tried to stop.

But I couldn't.

Years later, I learned how addiction rewires the brain.

How dopamine depletion drives darker desires.

How spiritual slavery isn't just metaphor—it's reality.

Jesus said, "Everyone who practices sin is a slave to sin." (John 8:34)

That was me.

Even after the altar.

Even after the prayer.

Even after the transformation.

I was still enslaved.

Biblical Parallel: Isaiah's Vision

Isaiah 6: Conviction and Calling

Isaiah was in the temple.

Worshiping. Seeking. Waiting.

Then the heavens opened.

He saw the Lord—high and exalted.

Angels cried, "Holy, holy, holy."

And Isaiah didn't celebrate.

He collapsed.

"Woe to me!" he cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips…"

Conviction.

Not condemnation.

Not shame.

Just truth.

Then came the coal.

A burning ember from the altar.

Touched to his lips.

Cleansing. Healing. Commissioning.

"Your guilt is taken away," the angel said. "Your sin is atoned for."

Then came the call:

"Whom shall I send?"

And Isaiah replied, "Here am I. Send me."

Reflection: The Altar Is a Beginning

The altar isn't the end of the spiral.

It's the beginning of surrender.

Isaiah didn't walk away perfect.

He walked away commissioned.

I didn't leave that concert healed.

I left it awakened.

Conviction isn't shame—it's invitation.

To be cleansed.

To be called.

To be changed.

God doesn't wait for us to be ready.

He meets us in the moment.

He touches the unclean.

He speaks through the broken.

And He sends us.

Invitation: Return to the Altar

Where did God first meet you?

Where did conviction first break through?

Return there.

Not to relive shame—but to remember grace.

Write a prayer of surrender.

Name the sin.

Ask for the coal.

Ask for the cleansing.

Then ask for the calling.

Because the altar isn't where you end.

It's where you begin.

Chapter 5: The Lie of Marriage

When Love Isn't Enough to Heal Lust

She was the answer to my prayer.

Beautiful. Godly. Kind.

We met in church. We courted with intention. We worshiped together.

She made me want to be a better man.

And I believed the lie:

Marriage will fix me.

Intimacy will heal me.

Love will override lust.

But it didn't.

The shame I carried made intimacy almost impossible.

It warped my view of her.

It warped her view of herself.

I could see it. I could feel it.

And I hated myself for it.

But I still couldn't change it.

So I did what I always did:

I dove deeper into my addiction.

Magazines. Fantasies. Acting out.

Not just physical. Not just psychological.

Spiritual.

Jesus said, "Everyone who practices sin is a slave to sin."

And I was practicing.

Daily. Secretly. Desperately.

I convinced myself:

• She'll never know.
• It's not hurting anyone.
• I'll stop soon.

But she did know.

It was hurting her.

And I didn't stop.

The addiction spread like mold.

It warped my relationships.

My identity.

My sense of reality.

I stopped seeing her as a soul.

I started seeing her as a solution.

And when she couldn't fix me, I blamed her.

Marriage didn't heal me.

It exposed me.

Biblical Parallel: Hosea 1–3

Love That Won't Let Go

God told Hosea to marry a prostitute.

Not to shame her.

To love her.

She left him.

Again and again.

She returned to her old lovers.

She sold herself.

And Hosea didn't rage.

He pursued her.

He bought her back.

He spoke tenderly to her.

He said, "You are mine."

Not because she was faithful.

Because he was.

Hosea's love wasn't blind.

It was relentless.

And God said, "This is how I love Israel."

This is how I love you.

Reflection: Love Isn't the Cure—Grace Is

Marriage is beautiful.

But it's not a cure.

It's a mirror.

It reflects what's hidden.

It magnifies what's broken.

It reveals what needs grace.

My wife loved me.

But she couldn't heal me.

Only God could.

And He didn't abandon me.

Even when I abandoned her.

Even when I abandoned myself.

God's love isn't sentimental.

It's sacrificial.

It's stubborn.

It's holy.

Like Hosea, He pursues.

He redeems.

He whispers, "You are mine."

Invitation

If you've believed the lie that love will fix you—let grace speak louder.

Write down the expectations you placed on others to heal you.

Then write what only God can do.

Ask Him to love you like Hosea.

To pursue you.

To redeem you.

To whisper, "You are mine."

Because grace doesn't wait for you to be whole.

It meets you in the fracture.

Chapter 6: The Thorn

God's Power in Weakness

After fourteen years in Youth Ministry, I stepped into a new role as Worship Leader. It was another season of stretching and growth. I was now helping lead the entire church. Nearly every church I served was transitioning from traditional to contemporary worship—a rocky, tumultuous process. But it proved to be a role I was suited for. And God walked me through every bump and bruise.

During that time, I joined several international mission trips. I saw poverty I'd never imagined—rampant hunger and homelessness, overwhelming desperation, churches with only one Bible passed from family to family. And yet, the people were joyous. Content. Their worship was more intense than anything I had witnessed before.

For them, Jesus was everything.

I learned the truth of the phrase: Jesus can never be all you need until He is all you have.

I began to understand how the Psalmist could write,

"Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you." —Psalm 73:25

That lesson became part of the fabric of my life. Over the years, I've seen countless souls come to faith in Jesus. I've walked with couples on the brink of divorce, sat with friends in their deepest valleys, and celebrated mountaintop moments. I've helped addicts find freedom through the healing power of the Holy Spirit—even while I remained bound myself.

That paradox was both a blessing and a burden.

God used me to lead others to deliverance, while I silently grieved my own captivity.

Looking back, I ask: Who can take a life so fractured and use it to bring healing, hope, and redemption?

God can.

Biblical Parallel: Paul's Thorn and God's Power in Weakness

Paul explains that to keep him from becoming proud because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations he received, he was given a thorn in the flesh—a persistent affliction that tormented him. He pleaded with the Lord three times to remove it.

God's answer was not deliverance.

It was grace.

"My grace is sufficient for you," the Lord told him, "for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Paul came to understand that the thorn was not a liability, but a platform. Instead of hiding it, he began to boast in it—not because suffering is good, but because weakness became the place where Christ's power rested most fully.

Paul was no stranger to spiritual authority.

He saw visions.

He performed miracles.

He planted churches.

He wrote Scripture.

But he also suffered.

Not publicly.

Privately.

Persistently.

He begged God to take the thorn away.

Not once.

Three times.

And God said no.

Not because He didn't love Paul.

Because He did.

Paul didn't get relief.

He got revelation.

That weakness wasn't a liability.

It was a platform.

When Paul was weak, God was strong.

Reflection: Ministry Isn't Proof of Wholeness—It's Evidence of Grace

I led hundreds.

I taught truth.

I sang worship.

I discipled the broken.

And all the while, I was breaking.

God didn't pull me from the pulpit.

He poured Himself into it.

My addiction didn't cancel my calling.

It clarified it.

Because I knew what it meant to need grace—

not once,

but daily.

I didn't minister from a pedestal.

I ministered from a fracture.

And that's where God shines brightest.

Invitation: Boast in the Thorn

If you've believed the lie that ministry requires perfection, let Paul's story rewrite yours.

Name the thorn you've begged God to remove.

Then name what God has done through it.

Ask Him to show you how His power rests on your weakness—

how your fracture might become a fountain,

how your story might become a sanctuary for others.

Because grace doesn't wait for you to be clean.

It meets you while you're bleeding.

And when you ask,

"Who could use a life like mine?"

He answers,

"I can."

God can.

Chapter 7: The Collapse

When the Body Breaks and the Soul Follows

By November 2022, my world began to unravel.

It started with my body. A cough that wouldn't quit. A foul taste in my mouth. Weight falling off without effort. A thirst I couldn't quench. I was up every fifteen minutes—day and night—running to the bathroom. My mouth stayed dry. My body stayed tired. Constipation set in. Fatigue settled deep into my bones.

Eating became painful. Sleeping became impossible. Living became exhausting.

I didn't know what was wrong. I only knew that something was.

Work added pressure instead of relief. Driving a special needs school bus had once felt meaningful. Now it felt like exile. Silent routes. Non-verbal preschoolers. Four-a.m. alarms. No social life. No ministry. No outlet. I felt invisible, useful only for the task at hand.

My finances began to unravel as well. Overtime threatened my Social Security benefits, but I was afraid to confront my supervisor—afraid to lose the fragile stability I had left. Every decision felt like a risk. Every risk felt unbearable.

By then, social withdrawal was complete. Since 2018, I had focused everything on my family, trying to repair what addiction had broken. But outside of them, I had no close friends. No lifeline. No one to talk to. Fear, exhaustion, and isolation closed in together.

And exhaustion does what it always does. It drives us back to whatever once worked.

So I returned to the only coping mechanism I knew.

The addiction came roaring back—stronger, more insidious, demanding more and giving less. It happened multiple times a day, hidden carefully from my family and buried beneath layers of guilt. I had promised myself I would never alienate them again, so I didn't bring the habit home.

I moved it.

Out of my house.

Onto my school bus.

It felt safe. Solitary. Concealed. And for a brief moment, it worked.

But the spiral had grown tighter.

Chapter 8: The Surrender

When Exhaustion Looks Like Failure

Elijah had just called down fire from heaven. He had just defeated the prophets of Baal. He had just watched God move in undeniable power. And then he collapsed.

When Jezebel threatened him, fear overtook reason and Elijah ran. He fled into the wilderness, found a broom tree, sat down beneath it, and prayed to die.

"I've had enough, Lord," he said. "Take my life."

He wasn't weak. He was exhausted.

And God did not rebuke him.

Instead, God sent an angel. Not with correction or instruction, but with food, water, and rest. Elijah slept. He ate. He slept again. Only after his body was tended did God speak.

And when God finally spoke, it was not in wind or earthquake or fire. It was in a whisper.

Sometimes collapse isn't failure—it's fatigue. Sometimes relapse isn't rebellion—it's desperation. And sometimes silence isn't abandonment—it's invitation.

Elijah didn't need a sermon. He needed sleep. He needed sustenance. He needed presence. So do we.

God doesn't always shout. Sometimes He waits. Sometimes He sits beside us in the shade. Sometimes He speaks only after we are finally still enough to listen.

Elijah didn't have answers under that tree. He didn't have strength. He didn't even have hope. He sat down and asked to die. And God did not argue with him. He didn't correct his theology or demand faith Elijah didn't have.

God stayed.

He gave him bread. He gave him water. He let him sleep.

And when Elijah was finally able to listen, God came quietly. Gently. Near.

Sometimes the holiest moment isn't prayer—it's endurance. Sometimes faith looks like staying alive one more day. And sometimes the whisper isn't meant to fix anything, only to remind us that we are not alone beneath the tree.

God does not require strength from the exhausted.

He provides presence.

And presence is enough.

Chapter 9: The Arrest

Where Grace Builds Altars

I never set out to write this story.

I lived it.

For most of my life, I survived in the margins—of certainty, of belonging, of myself. I learned early how to live inward, how to endure loneliness, how to escape into imagination when reality felt unbearable. That way of surviving carried me farther than it should have. It also carried a cost I didn't understand until much later.

Addiction deepened the margins.

Shame fortified them.

Silence made them feel permanent.

And somewhere along the way, I became convinced that God belonged to the center—while I belonged somewhere outside of it.

I was wrong.

I didn't meet God when everything came together.

I met Him when it fell apart.

I met Him in jail cells and hospital rooms.

In silence.

In Scripture.

In the long work of becoming honest.

The margins weren't where my story ended.

They were where God finally met me without pretense.

This book isn't a testimony of victory tied in a bow.

It's a record of survival reshaped by grace.

A slow emergence from secrecy into light.

Not dramatic.

Not complete.

But real.

I am not whole.

But I am present.

I am honest.

And I am still held.

Biblical Parallel: Jesus in the Margins

Jesus rarely did His deepest work in the center.

He touched lepers.

He ate with sinners.

He spoke with Samaritans.

He noticed the bleeding woman.

He defended the adulteress.

He did not wait for people to move toward holiness.

He stepped into their exile.

The margins were not a detour for Him.

They were the mission.

And they still are.

Reflection: The Margins Are Holy Ground

We often think holiness lives in sanctuaries and certainty.

But more often, it takes shape in silence.

In waiting.

In places we didn't choose.

God builds altars where we learn to stop pretending.

Where survival gives way to truth.

Where imagination no longer has to carry the weight of reality alone.

If you are in the margins—

if you feel unseen, unfinished, or disqualified—

you are not beyond grace.

You may be closer to it than you realize.

Invitation: Stay

Where are your margins?

Where have you learned to survive instead of belong?

You don't need to leave them yet.

You don't need to fix them.

You don't need to explain them.

Just stay.

Because grace does not rush us out of the margins.

It meets us there.

And it stays.

Chapter 10: Still Standing

When the World Moves On and God Stays Near

Life outside jail wasn't the relief I expected.

It was a battlefield of its own.

I couldn't get a job.

The charges hanging over me made employers hesitant.

My age didn't help.

Gig work was out—my car's transmission had failed.

I couldn't deliver packages.

I couldn't drive to interviews.

I couldn't sleep in the car because it no longer ran.

Homelessness loomed.

Most of my family had distanced themselves.

Old friends remained silent.

Ministry connections had faded.

I was back in the world—but without a place in it.

And yet, God remained near.

The man who walked into jail in 2023 had been buried in shame.

The man who walked out had been resurrected through the Word.

Fourteen times through the Bible.

Fourteen layers peeled away.

Fourteen encounters with grace.

I now understand addiction differently—not just as sin or weakness, but as spiritual slavery.

And what Jesus said in John 8:36 is true:

"If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed."

Freedom doesn't mean ease.

It means clarity.

Sobriety doesn't guarantee comfort.

It guarantees war—and the Spirit's presence within it.

I still face trial.

I could spend the rest of my life in prison.

From the world's view, I am wrecked.

Discarded.

A cautionary tale.

But from heaven's view, I'm redeemed.

God hasn't forsaken me.

I feel Him in the hunger.

I hear Him in the silence.

I see Him in the uncertainty.

And wherever He leads—without promise or certainty—I will follow.

Because He is still good.

And I am still His.

Biblical Parallel: The Prodigal Son

Luke 15:11–32: When Grace Runs First

He squandered everything.

Left home.

Chased pleasure.

Ended up feeding pigs.

Then he came to his senses.

He didn't rehearse a defense.

He rehearsed a confession.

"I'm no longer worthy to be called your son…"

But the father didn't wait.

He ran.

He embraced.

He restored.

Not because the son was clean.

Because the father was merciful.

The robe.

The ring.

The feast.

All before the apology was finished.

Reflection: Grace Doesn't Wait for Worthiness

I didn't return to applause.

I returned to silence.

To uncertainty.

To rejection.

But grace met me anyway.

Not with a robe.

But with the Word.

Not with a feast.

But with daily bread.

The Prodigal didn't earn his way back.

He simply came home.

And the Father ran.

God doesn't wait for us to be worthy.

He waits for us to come home.

Invitation: Come Home

Are you afraid to return?

Afraid of rejection?

Afraid you've gone too far?

You haven't.

Write down what you think disqualifies you.

Then write Luke 15:20 beside it:

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion…"

You are seen.

You are loved.

You are welcome.

Come home.

Chapter 11: Margins

Where Grace Builds Altars

I never set out to write this story.

I lived it.

I survived it.

I lost almost everything to it.

But by grace, I'm still here.

And God is still speaking.

This isn't a tale of triumph tied in a bow.

It's a testimony.

A slow emergence from years of entrapment, shame, and silence.

I am a man changed—not just by meetings or jail or consequences—but by the relentless, pursuing love of God.

For decades, I lived in the margins.

The margins of society.

The margins of church.

The margins of my own mind.

Addiction made sure of that.

Guilt made it worse.

And isolation cemented the lie that God had moved on.

But He hadn't.

I met Him in jail.

I met Him in scripture.

I met Him in silence.

I met Him in the flicker of hope that said, "Write this down. Someone needs it."

So I did.

And I will keep writing.

I will keep walking.

Because every breath I take now echoes the mercy of a God who refused to leave me behind.

Margins aren't where the story ends.

Margins are where resurrection begins.

Biblical Parallel: Jesus in the Margins

Luke 7, John 4, Mark 5: Where Grace Goes First

He touched lepers.

He dined with sinners.

He spoke to Samaritans.

He healed the bleeding woman.

He forgave the adulteress.

Jesus didn't build His ministry in the temple.

He built it in the margins.

He didn't wait for the clean.

He went to the unclean.

He didn't wait for the worthy.

He went to the discarded.

He didn't wait for the strong.

He went to the broken.

And He still does.

Reflection: The Margins Are Holy Ground

We think holiness lives in sanctuaries.

But it often lives in silence.

In jail cells.

In hospital rooms.

In broken homes.

In addiction recovery meetings.

God builds altars in the places no one else wants to go.

And if you're there—if you're in the margins—know this:

You are not forgotten.

You are not forsaken.

You are not beyond grace.

You are exactly where God wants you. Where He does His best work.

Invitation: Build an Altar

Where are your margins?

Where have you been discarded, disqualified, or dismissed?

Write it down.

Then ask God to meet you there.

Not to erase them.

To inhabit them.

Because the margins aren't the end.

They're the beginning.

Build an altar.

Light a candle.

Say a prayer.

And listen.

Because grace is already there.

Conclusion: The Light That Remains

If you've made it this far, thank you.

You've walked through my spiral.

You've sat in my silence.

You've stood in my margins.

And I hope you've seen something more than brokenness.

I hope you've seen grace.

Not the kind that erases consequences.

The kind that enters them.

Not the kind that waits for you to be clean.

The kind that meets you in the dirt.

Not the kind that fixes everything.

The kind that stays when everything falls apart.

This book isn't a roadmap.

It's a witness.

To the God who didn't abandon me.

To the Word that reshaped me.

To the Spirit who still whispers in the trees.

I don't know what comes next.

I still face trial.

I still face uncertainty.

I still face rejection.

But I also face grace.

And grace is enough.

If you're reading this and feel like your story is too messy, too dark, too far gone—let me say it again:

You are not beyond redemption.

You are not beyond mercy.

You are not beyond love.

God does His best work in fractured places.

In fractured people.

In fractured light.

So keep walking.

Keep writing.

Keep breathing.

Because the light that remains is not your own.

It's His.

And it's enough.

I will leave you with a reflection written during my incarceration: