A few months ago, a member of our church told us something of his God story. Though his story and mine are not the same, what he talked about touched a chord within me. I could hear its thrum as I listened intently not just to his words, but his heart, and his meaning. Our stories move and shape each other as we become ever more deeply a part of the one Body Jesus has drawn us into. I hope his story moves you as well.
My early memories smell like hay, sawdust and wood smoke. They feel like dirt under my fingernails. I was raised with horses, chickens, dogs, cats, snakes, a cow, and a couple pigs I personally shot to be sent for slaughter at the age of thirteen in the hills outside of Roanoke, Virginia. It was me, my father, my mother, my grandmother, and my sister.
I didn’t really have friends growing up, so church became the center of my social world. Our little brick Methodist church felt about the same size as our barn—maybe had a hundred people if everyone came.
And for most of my life, I was in church any time the doors were open, typically no less than three times a week. Mom says I was saved when I was four, kneeling with her in the living room at home to pray the words after her. I don’t remember it, but she does.
But inside our home, it was much harder. My dad was an alcoholic. He was emotionally abusive, cheated on my mom, and when it came to discipline … he could be physically abusive. We didn’t connect. He was the quintessential man’s man and had hunted, ridden horses and played sports. I had asthma, hated sports, distrusted horses (and still do), enjoyed music, and was a more “sensitive” boy in a world that didn’t have space or vocabulary for that.
After thirteen years of yelling, tension and anxiety, my dad stopped drinking, cold turkey. Mom says it was God and our nightly prayers for him. Maybe it was. The next two years were like watching a stranger grow into someone I’d always wished I could know. He was more gentle, embraced his faith, became a safe person and we started reconnecting.
Two years of sobriety followed and gave me a dad I hadn’t known. One day, after working through an argument, my father told me, unprompted, that he loved me. A few days later he passed out, slipped into a coma, and died from liver failure without even being able to say goodbye. I was fifteen and it shattered us, emotionally and financially. We had to sell the farm and decided to move to Annapolis, Maryland to be with family for support.
Annapolis was good for me and the changes provided a needed distraction from the hurt and anger. We plugged into a local church (in this building, oddly enough).* I played guitar, sang, and attended youth group. I led the chapel band in my small, Christian school and was comfortably heading down a road that I knew well.
By my twenties, I was a fundamentalist, evangelical poster child, leading worship, attending church groups, mission trips, and evangelism outreach “programs.” I had a very narrow view of life and God: black and white, heaven or hell, sin or salvation. I “led people to Christ.” And I sincerely believed every word that I said.
But at the same time, right as the internet was coming online, I fell into an all-too-common addiction that affects over ninety percent of men in this country. At first, I didn’t even have words for it. But it became a daily burden I carried with me, loaded with heavy, sometimes debilitating, silent shame. I’d spend hours online, then show up at church, raise my hands in worship, and feel like a fraud.
I got married. Served for two years as a missionary in Venezuela. Came back, had kids and served as a worship leader. To most people, I looked like a man of God and someone they respected. But the shame never stopped. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was the one guy who couldn’t beat it. I’d been to more men’s groups, conferences, and seminars than I can count, but I hadn’t met a single man who had come through it with lasting victory and overcome the shame and destruction.
Because of that, hope began to die.
We adopted our daughter from Nicaragua when she was eight. We didn’t know the full extent of her trauma and what it would bring to our family, but it changed everything. For the next ten years, our home was in a state of constant crisis and anxiety. Daily meltdowns. Social workers. Emotional outbursts. Physical threats. My marriage strained under the weight of it. My sons started retreating to their bedrooms. Everyone was scared and hurting.
In 2021, things escalated. We had to remove our daughter from the house due to physical threats we later learned were very real. Five programs later, she still struggles deeply. Our family, including my daughter, never truly recovered.
Somewhere in that darkness, I unraveled. I made some terrible choices. My wife became distant and we drifted apart. With no hope or answers, I hit bottom and became suicidal, unable to see a way forward. A dear a friend answered their phone that day. I told them that “Something has to give or I’m going to drive this car into a tree and be done.” Fortunately, he listened, loved me, and helped me find a support group. I still had no hope, but I at least had an option besides ending my life.
It wasn’t until the third or fourth support group that I tried when it happened.
Two men—older than me—sat in a small, musty, back room of a church, a room with six other guys, and said “We’ve been free from this addiction for over ten years. But we’re still here. Because this is what works.”
That night I told God, “I’m done with You for right now. You’ve had Your shot. These guys … they’ve got something different. So I’m going follow this thread and maybe we will talk later.”
And for the next two years, I walked that thread and I got real honest.
I remember the night I shared everything in that group. No holding back. No filters. I just dropped the full truth about everything on the table and waited. I think I cringed when I finished, but what came back wasn’t judgment. It was acceptance. Grace. Unconditional love. It was like I could finally breathe for the first time in decades. I distinctly remember stepping outside after group and looking at a tree nearby. I felt like I could see every leaf. Every detail and color. I hadn’t felt that kind of clarity since my twenties.
But even with healing and small steps forward in that area, the rest of my life kept crumbling. My marriage ended. My sons won’t talk to me. I was laid off. Twice. I started a new job that’s a lot harder. I left my church and long-time spiritual community. I even developed some sort of neurological condition that makes playing the guitar difficult.
I legitimately used to think if you did everything “right” (even if you struggled with sin, because everyone does, right?)—if you led your family in faith, served Him and loved people well—things would work out and God would bless it. But that isn’t what happened to me. My life came crashing down and I’m still crawling out of the emotional and spiritual rubble.
So, now I’m here.
A good chunk of my theology has completely unraveled. I’m not always sure what to trust. I don’t see the Bible the same way I used to. And yeah, sometimes, I still get angry at God.
But here’s what I can say: I FEEL like there’s a God. I don’t always know what to do with Him. But I feel Him. Not in a theology or doctrine, but in something like a pull. A presence. So yes, we do talk more now, though it can still be strained and some days I still wrestle with trusting Him.
BUT. When I stand up here and lead worship, that’s when I feel Him the most. I may not believe every word I sing. Sometimes the lyrics feel like I’m lying. But somehow, I reconnect. Not to certainty, but to a small measure of hope. Not to concrete answers, but to what feels like His presence.
So why am I still doing this—still leading worship—when so much in my life is in shambles and unresolved? When I feel like a hypocrite, a fraud and a failure? Because, for me, this is the space where I can feel something beyond the chaos. Where I don’t have to pretend. Where I am safe among old and new friends. Where the words I sing tum into prayers that I’m trying to believe again.
My story doesn’t have a tidy ending. I do have good sobriety in my struggles, but I’m still a mess. I don’t have many answers and I don’t know how this ends.
But I’m still here, hoping—and occasionally feeling—that there is a God who sees past the wreckage of my life, loves me unconditionally, wants to be with me, and patiently continues to draw me to Himself.
So, for now, I’ll keep singing.
*The building our church now meets in is the same building where Matt, as a young teenager, attended church. It is one of those quirky coincidences that feels like God’s love and knowingness.
