I was born and raised in a small town about an hour south of Chicago, and for as far back as I can remember, I was in church just about every Sunday; I even have a memory of walking across town in my gum-soled shoes to attend Sunday school on my own, though I don’t remember why—I didn’t particularly like that class. All I knew is that I was born in America and I wasn’t Jewish, so that meant I was a Christian. My dad wasn’t the church-goin’ type, but my mom grew up in the Lutheran church with her parents, so I guess that made me a Lutheran; not that I liked that, either—songs filled with double whole notes are boring. But, when one is a Christian, one goes to church on Sunday. So that’s where I was. ‘murica.

When I was around 10 years of age, my family moved to south Florida and began attending Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church in Ft. Lauderale. They have an amazing pipe organ and a huge choir, so that was cool, but Dr. D. James Kennedy preached so far over my head that I can’t say I ever got anything out of it other than hunger pains—I couldn’t wait to leave so we could eat lunch. Of course, I was in Sunday school every week, and I was properly instructed in the Westminster Shorter Catechism and all things Presbyterian. In the midst of Mom and Dad attending the new members’ class, my dad realized that he wasn’t a Christian, but if he were going to join the church, he really should be. Not long afterwards, I found myself sitting on the right arm of my dad’s La-Z-Boy chair, with my mom on the other, where Dad (ever present in the “seat of power”) and Mom explained the gospel to me: how all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, that the wages of sin is death and relational separation from God, and that that separation would result in an eternity in hell, by default. But Jesus came and lived a perfect life to fulfill all the requirements of the Law of God, and was murdered on a splintery Roman cross. He was buried, but conquered death three days later by rising from the grave. They explained that by trusting in Christ’s sacrifice, in confessing that He is the absolute ruler over my life and by believing that God raised Him from the grave, that I could be saved (Romans 10:9, 10).

Hell didn’t sound like a great place to spend eternity, so minutes later, there in our apartment at the very northwest corner of Coral Springs, I asked Jesus to forgive me of my sins and come into my heart…or something like that. Afterwards, I wiped the tears from my eyes and headed back to my room to resume whatever it was I was working on at my desk before I was called out to get my eternal destination all straightened out.

There’s a lot of interesting stuff I could write about my high school days, but let’s face facts—I probably like to write more than you like to read, so let’s cut to the chase.

Being the son of a firstborn military man who was himself the firstborn son of a military man is not easy. My dad’s mantra when I was young was, “If you can’t do it right the first time, don’t do it at all.” I suppose this makes sense if you’re a jet engine mechanic in the Air Force in Thailand during the early ‘70s, or if you’re a diesel engine mechanic working on Mack trucks—when someone’s life rests in the quality of your work—but it’s an impossibly heavy load to bear for a kid with perfectionist tendencies. By my senior year of high school, after years of going through the walk-sin-repent cycle, the weight of that mantra broke me. I was so burdened by my own failures that I decided that I couldn’t do it right the first, second, or even the third time—so I stopped trying. Around that time, I also got word that my former youth pastor and one of my Christian high school teachers abandoned their respective wives and children for other women; and that was just the excuse I needed to turn my back on Christ. “If that’s what Christianity is all about, I want no part of it.” So, starting in 1990, I “punched out” of Christianity and began a seven-year marathon of running from God, living life the way I wanted. It was fun for a season, but for sure, my sin found me out (Numbers 32:23).

In the summer of 1997, I moved into my agent’s apartment in Houston, Texas and began playing basketball with former and then-current NBA players for 8 hours a day, five days a week. On the outside, I look like I had it all put together—I had a degree in electrical engineering, I was in the best physical shape of my life, I was dating my best friend of 9 years, and on my 25th birthday, I blocked a half-dozen dunk attempts by Shaquille O’Neal on the first day of rookie camp with the Houston Rockets. I was on the cusp of an NBA contract, and I was earning money with my website-building side hustle. My future was so bright, I had to wear shades—Killer Loop®s, to be precise. But the “hound of heaven” was after me, big time.

Seemingly out of the blue, my agent started taking me to Brentwood Baptist Church. I don’t remember the preaching or much else about the services—other than being the only white guy in the building—but I do vividly remember the choir. Every single Sunday, when that choir lit up, I started crying. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t the lyrics—it was just the sheer power of all those joyful voices singing praises to Jesus. Clearly, the Holy Spirit was doing something in me, but I couldn’t really figure it out at the time—I think I was missing the joy of walking with Christ (Luke 15:17). The walls that I’d erected between myself and Christ Jesus were starting to crumble, and I started to pray again…but I had a mighty idol that needed to be burned, ground up, and scattered in the Kidron valley (2 Kings 23:6).

My idol was my best friend of 9 years…the one I mentioned earlier…you know—the one I was dating. Even by secular standards, the relationship was “messed up,” so by God’s standard, it was an abomination. When the Holy Spirit convicted me of that sin, I became increasingly uneasy with our situation. Something had to change, so I called her home in Florida from my agent’s room in Houston to tell her how I felt. A few minutes later, the relationship came to a fiery and unexpected end; it was a plane crash into a freight train carrying a thousand flaming dumpsters. My heart was broken, I sobbed uncontrollably, and I wanted to die. So there, in my agent’s Houston apartment, with my heart heaving in my chest, snot bubbles popping out of my nostrils, and tears streaming down my cheeks, I confessed seven years’ worth of sin and rebellion against Him, and I repented, crying out “God have mercy on me, a sinner!” I surrendered control of my life to the Lord Jesus, and have been walking with him ever since.

I’m still not perfect, and that period of rebellion has left some scars that occasionally haunt me to this day, but I am thankful that I am a new creature in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17)—nobody who met me between 1990 – 1997 would even recognize me now—that I have been cleansed from all unrighteousness (1 John 1:9), and that God has restored the years that the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25).