I was raised in a quiet Evangelical church, like many people, attending every Sunday. However, I couldn't tell you the books of the Bible or speak about having a deep relationship with God. As a result, I eventually walked away from my faith, like many who lack a strong foundation when they're young. College and young adulthood were filled with sex, drugs, and rock and roll for me. However, by the grace of God, during that chaotic time, I also got married, attended college, earned a couple of degrees, and had two beautiful kids. Unfortunately, I developed a severe addiction.

In the last years before I met Jesus, I became addicted to crystal meth, using it daily for almost five years. While I’m not an expert on meth, I know that most people continue using it until they die or go to jail. I fell into it unexpectedly. I was a musician, initially using cocaine, which felt acceptable. Then I started making my own crack, which lacked the glamour associated with cocaine. One night, I had a late-night show, and my usual drug dealer didn’t have what I wanted. He offered me meth instead, saying, “This isn’t what you want, but this will get you through the night.” From that moment on, meth became the only drug I used for the next five years.

As my addiction progressed, I lost everything: my wife, my job, my band, and my friends. I was left with just one night a week to see my sons, who were four and two at the time. My ex-wife agreed to bring them over, and the deal was that I would make them dinner, put them to bed, and take them to daycare in the morning. That was the only responsibility she was willing to give me. So on those nights, I desperately fought the urge to get high.

I vividly remember May 4th when she brought the boys over. I put them in their little footy pajamas, made them a typical single dad dinner of corn dogs, and turned on their favorite movie, Finding Nemo. I hadn’t used that day, which left me incredibly tired, anxious, and depressed. My living room was a mess, cluttered with drug paraphernalia. I hadn’t washed the dishes in months, and the place was infested with rats and roaches—it resembled a drug den.

In that moment, I had a moment of clarity. I realized that their lives were terrible with me as their father. I felt compelled to get out of there. As I began to doze in and out of consciousness, I made a plan. I would take them to daycare in the morning, then return home to my garage, where I intended to end my life using a hose and duct tape to asphyxiate myself in my car.

When you're around people contemplating suicide, one question often asked is whether they have a plan. For the first time, I had made a concrete plan. The weight of the situation hit me hard, and I began to weep, fully aware that I was preparing to die. Eventually, I fell asleep, tears still on my face, but I don’t know how long I was out—maybe thirty minutes. When I woke up, my two boys were standing over me, nudging me awake. At their age, they were likely too young to understand the details of what was happening, but they could sense that something was different in their father’s home. I think my four-year-old was already beginning to process feelings of insecurity around me.

I wiped my tears and asked, “What’s up, guys?” They looked at each other, then back at me, and said in unison, “Just keep swimming, Daddy. Just keep swimming, Daddy.” This line from the movie hit me profoundly. In that moment, I felt the unmistakable presence of God filling the room. I sensed that He was speaking to me through my children, telling me, “Yes, just keep swimming, but you are done planning. I’m taking over from here.”

That realization was powerful. I got the kids to bed that night, went to sleep, and in the morning, I took them to daycare. On the way home, I faced the reality of my situation. I received a call from an estranged family member saying they had a bed for me in an inpatient treatment center in Sundance, Utah. “You leave in three hours.” I realized that God was real and in control, and I decided to go with the flow. Ever since then, each day has been a journey. I was that close to death when He intervened and took charge of my life.

Now, as a leader and pastor, I often reflect on my journey. I remember that I’m not good at any of this—it’s God who has guided me. Without throwing my parents under the bus, I believe that faith was understood in my family but not truly taught. My mom knew the word, yet I don’t recall being discipled much. Now, as a father, I strive to motivate myself to do devotions with my sons, ensuring they understand the importance of faith.

Looking back, I can recall instances in my life where God has shown up despite my faults. For example, young cousins reminded me that I had declared my desire to be a pastor when we were kids. I also remember a concert where I asked my mom if I could go down to the altar to pray for a man who was weeping. Those moments make me realize that when you belong to God, you are His, whether you acknowledge it or not.

Although I stopped doing drugs, I recognize that this journey hasn’t been without challenges. I attribute much of my growth to the hard work my wife has invested in our relationship. She has put in the hours to help me overcome my anger and develop a sense of peace, which I’ve learned from her. We strive to make faith real in our ministry, always putting our boys first.

One of the most significant aspects of our family dynamic is transparency. My sons can articulate the story of “just keep swimming” far better than I can. They know all about my mistakes, my sickness, and the reasons behind my first marriage’s failure. I aim to paint an accurate picture of who I was before Jesus so they can truly grasp God’s power in my life.

During my early recovery, I began attending a mega church because they had a good children’s ministry. I joined the praise team and, within a year, was leading worship at this large church. My worship came from a place of truth, as God was healing me on stage. I believe this resonates with many people; when I cried, I wasn’t performing—I was genuinely a mess.

About a year into that experience, the pastor asked to meet for coffee. He mentioned that he believed I was called to preach. I remember saying, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I felt compelled to apologize for my rudeness, but the truth was that I had never considered full-time ministry a viable vocation. His suggestion seemed as absurd as claiming I was meant to be a trapeze artist. At the time, I was living in my parents' basement, relying on my last unemployment check. I found it hard to take his crazy plan seriously when I had no better one for my life.

Nevertheless, I began to follow this pastor’s lead, carrying his Bible and helping him prepare messages. Over the years, I encountered leaders who recognized potential in me that I couldn’t see myself. About a year into my ministry, one leader began to speak a vision of planting a church into my heart. As outrageous as the idea of being a preacher seemed, when he suggested planting a church, it resonated deeply with me. It felt as if a bell was ringing in my heart. I had never even heard the term “plant a church” before, but in that moment, it was as if heaven had declared, “Here’s what you’ve been waiting to find out.”

Since that day, my wife and I have dreamed of what it might look like to help a community of believers encounter Jesus as we had. Although we were blissfully unaware of the rules surrounding church planting, we had leaders who believed in us. My personal encounter with God fueled my determination; I was willing to sacrifice everything to ensure others could experience the same.

The COVID pandemic certainly impacted our first year of planting, but looking back, I realize that the surprises have been overwhelmingly positive. God has been incredibly good to us, perhaps because He understands my faint heart. If I had to face significant suffering, I might falter. The most astonishing aspect has been witnessing how real God is willing to be when I fully trust Him.

One challenge as leaders is that we are called to lead people in faith. This means God stretches us first. As He has stretched me this year, He has shown up in ways that make me say, “Wow, if I didn’t believe yesterday, there’s no way I can doubt now.”

Moreover, I’ve learned that people genuinely want to rise to the occasion. While some may shy away from challenges or have questionable motives, many are willing to step up and fulfill their commitments.

There’s this group of people who show up, and it’s like watching the Acts 2 church come alive in front of you. It’s breathtaking to see people fall in love with the King and knock down the gates of Hell for him. Sure, there are small disappointments, but they pale in comparison.

We pastors love to play the violin, right? It's easy to dwell on the struggles, but God is always doing something, even if we don’t always recognize it. When you’ve been on the brink of death, every day alive feels like the best gift ever. That perspective shapes everything. It doesn’t make me immune to real challenges, though—like in June, when the national conversation around racial justice was at its peak. It was the hardest month of my ministry. I have a master’s in public administration, wrote a thesis on reparations, studied African-American history. I thought I was equipped for this. But I realized that as the lead pastor of a church, the weight of leadership was on me in a new way. It was overwhelming, making sure my motives were pure and I was pointing to Jesus without overstepping or being too cautious.

Our church is deliberately multicultural, and leading in this season has meant listening more than ever before. I thought I had a grasp on inclusion, but I’ve come to understand that if you’re white, you don’t fully understand what others go through. We have a diverse congregation, including Dreamers and young African-Americans who have invited me into their experiences. My job has been to listen—really listen. And what I’ve found is that while my theology hasn’t changed, my heart has. It’s grown to resemble the heart of the Father.

I plan my sermons a year in advance, so I don’t respond directly to current events. But I’ve found that the Word of God is alive, and it speaks to the times we’re in, even when it wasn’t my intention. This past June, I was preaching through Gideon, and it was amazing to see how the story fit the current moment.

I also came to a realization about empathy. I had lunch with an African-American pastor friend who gently reminded me that no matter how much I try, I won’t ever fully understand the experience of someone from a different race. That’s been humbling. As white men, we often think we “get it” because we’ve studied or engaged with diverse communities. But the more I meet people, the more I realize how little I know. My job is to love, to listen, and to learn.

In my sermons, I stick to the Word. But my public persona, outside of the pulpit, is more aligned with my political and social views—on issues like Black Lives Matter and immigration reform. I think the two spheres should be separate. When people come to hear me preach, they come for the Word. But when they meet me for coffee, they encounter all of me, including my views on social issues. It’s important to listen to my congregation, to check in and ask if I’m missing something, if I’ve been too quiet. Their feedback has reassured me that I’m on the right track, listening and engaging without overstepping.

One concern I do have is the blending of faith and patriotism. It’s become so muddy. The connection between God and country, guns, and politics—it’s all a trick by the enemy, diverting us from Jesus’s love. It’s shocking that we didn’t see it sooner.

What gives me hope is the younger generation. They seem to understand that Christianity isn’t a Western religion, but an Eastern one. They get the importance of community and altruism. They’re compassionate, though they sometimes need guidance when the world entices them with its vices. But I trust God to lead them out of sin.

For me, perspective is everything. I shouldn’t even be here—if not for my son saving my life, I would’ve died in my addiction. Every day is a gift. Paul says we’re transformed from glory to glory, and that’s what I’ve experienced. Even in bad times, I know God is in control. He’s not confused by COVID or any other challenge we face. He’s working through it all.

I’ve been blessed to be present for my son’s growth and to engage with him in real conversations. That’s a gift. If God’s not worried, why should I be?

For anyone who hasn’t had the same experience and feels like they’re in a dark cloud with no end in sight, I’d ask: why do you think God would care for the birds of the air but not care for you? It’s easy to lose perspective, but we all have it if we look for it. God is good, and he’s working, even when we can’t see it.

Finally, we used to talk about “relationship over religion,” but I think we’ve forgotten what that means. Jesus is closer than a brother, and my deepest desire is to know him fully—to know what he smells like, what he sounds like, and to bring others along on that journey. Once you truly taste and see his goodness, nothing is the same.