My Testimony***On a winter night in 2007, I found myself once again sitting in a tavern in a small town in southern Michigan where I worked—one I’d practically lived in for the past ten years. Over the years, things had happened there that I’d never share with anyone back in Indiana… memories I’d gladly erase if I could.
That night, I’d just come off my second-shift factory job on the other side of the railroad tracks. The place was quiet—seven souls scattered along the bar, all regulars, all familiar. I took my beer to a table by the jukebox and fed in a song: Roll Me Away by Bob Seger.
Then I looked up. Suddenly, it was 1998 all over again: the same faces. Same stools. Same conversations. And it hit me:
“What am I doing here? How did my life come to this?” Without another word, I put the beer down and walked out. That was the last time I ever stepped foot inside that tavern.
As I drove home through snowy streets, something shifted inside me. At first, sadness filled the car. Then, gradually, it turned into anger. By the time I reached my one-bedroom apartment and climbed the narrow stairs, I was boiling. I threw my coat on the floor, marched to the center of the room, and pointed a finger at the ceiling. I began to blame God for all of my problems: “This is Your fault! You knew what I’d become—and You let it happen!”, I railed. I cried out about the car accident when I was eight. About why God hadn’t taken me then. About a lifetime I felt had been squandered.
And then—whether it was God, or my own conscience—I heard it. Plain as day:
“Your mother had enough to deal with… an alcoholic husband… eight other children… The last thing she needed was the heartache of a dead child.”
I stood frozen. Just breathing. Just listening.
So I thought, well, that pretty much says it all. Thanks for the honest answer, God. You didn’t spare my 8-year-old life that day out of any concern for my well-being, but out of mercy for my godly mother. Okay. I can understand that. You knew I wasn’t worthy of Your love. Thanks a lot.
However, with that mindset came a deeper dread. I felt like I had finally crossed the line with God. Like He had brushed His hands together and said, “That’s it. We’re done.” I imagined Him turning and walking away.
That image settled into me like cold cement. A heaviness, a depression, came over me that I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just sadness—it was spiritual distance. Silence where there used to be hope.
A few weeks later, I got a call from one of my sisters. She said maybe it was time to come home. And honestly? She was right. If I died up in Michigan, who would come for my body? That thought haunted me. If death was coming—and I believed it was—it would be easier for everyone if I was closer to home. So I left. In December of 2007, I moved back to Indiana. Then, in March of 2008, I took the job at the hospital. The job that changed everything.
A Quiet Beginning
I worked the third shift as a security officer at a small hospital tucked into the north end of the city. My nights began with a quiet walk around the entire perimeter of the hospital grounds—an outside patrol that gave me time to collect my thoughts. That evening, I’d been feeling off all day—queasy enough to consider calling in sick. Nevertheless, with only three months on the job and not much seniority to lean on, I knew it wasn’t wise to miss a shift without notice.
🚶♂️ Outside Patrol & Routine
On this particular night, I made my way through the familiar loop—past the emergency entrance, around the wooded edge of the property, and back toward the ambulance bay. As usual, it was uneventful. A soft hush lay over the city, interrupted only by distant traffic and the hum of rooftop vents.
I entered the hospital through the ambulance bay—the same entrance I used each night, since our security office sat just inside across from the E.R. work station. But as I stepped through those automatic doors, a flush swept over me. Instantly, I knew: I was about to vomit, and there was no stopping it. That sinking, helpless feeling hit hard.
No One Knows the Day or the Hour
It started suddenly. I quickly walked to the public restroom just inside the ambulance bay, barely making it across the threshold before a surge overtook me—unexpected and violent. I doubled over, and before I could make sense of what was happening, I was expelling a stomach full of blood. It wasn’t a trickle. It came fast, without warning, and left me dizzy and stunned.
I stepped back, shaken and unsure. Something wasn’t right. My body felt unmoored. Legs trembling, I dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling toward the hallway, desperate for help. Time blurred, sounds muffled. The room seemed to tilt, and I wondered if I was about to lose consciousness.
Soon, I felt myself being hoisted onto a gurney and rushed into one of those curtain-shrouded E.R. rooms. Needles pierced both arms, a blood pressure cuff clamped around my bicep, and the heart monitor’s beeping rang loud and relentless. Techs hovered, poking and prodding, firing off questions I was too weak to answer.
Then the nurses stepped out and pulled the curtain shut. One of them said—perhaps not realizing the curtain did nothing to muffle her voice: “His blood pressure is sinking fast, he’s bleeding internally. I’ll be surprised if he makes it ’till morning.”
That line cracked something open in me. This was it. I was going to die. In an instant, memories surged—ugly moments, selfish choices, shameful acts—all flashing like a twisted highlight reel. More accurately: a low-life reel.
Regret slammed into me with full force. Remorse flooded every corner of my mind. I knew where I was headed…Hell. And even in that fading moment, I felt an aching need to apologize to God—for squandering my life to satisfy nothing but myself, and for the rebellion that had defined me.
What I didn’t know then—and wouldn’t learn until later—was that the hemorrhaging stemmed from a hidden malignancy. Lymph nodal cancer, lodged in the top-left quadrant of my stomach, had been silently wreaking havoc. It was this unseen invader that had triggered the cascade—the blood loss, the collapse, the chaos in the E.R. In that moment, though, all I knew was pain and regret. The diagnosis would come later. Right then, I was standing at the edge… peeking over the precipice into a damned eternity.
Not My First Dance with Death
There had been other close calls—three times, in fact—where I thought I was on my way to the other side. Each time, I’d tried to bargain with God: “Let me live, and I’ll change”, I would promise. And each time, that promise barely lasted a few days before I slipped back into my old ways, chasing comfort and ignoring conviction. However, not this night. This night, there were no deals. To the best of my memory, I simply said:
“Lord, I could tell You that if You let me live, I’d change—but You’d know I was full of crap, and I’d know it too. The truth is, I can’t change. I’ve tried, and I can’t do it. You don’t owe me a thing, and I don’t deserve even a second of Your attention. But… Lord… if there’s even the smallest chance that You still love me, please forgive me. I give up. I surrender the ownership of my life to You. I’ve done things my way, and this is where it all led. If I’m going to change… You’re going to have to do it. Because I can’t.”
But God…
At that very moment, something impossible happened. I felt as though someone had wrapped a warm blanket around me from behind—while I lay there on that hospital bed—and pulled me into a gentle bear hug. I’m not kidding. It wasn’t a feeling I conjured or imagined. It was real. I felt every fear, every ounce of anxiety drain out of my body, as though they’d been flushed from my spirit. In their place came calm… and clarity. I knew—with a certainty stronger than pain, louder than doubt—that if I died that night, I would be with Jesus in Heaven.
I just knew. There was no bright light, no booming voice from above. Just that embrace… and peace like I’d never known.
That was seventeen years ago, on of June 25, 2008. Since then, every single day has been an adventure in trust. A slow, steady unfolding of grace. An intimate relationship with Someone I’ve never set my eyes on yet is more real than anyone I know on this Earth.
So I can tell you that you are never too old to be forgiven and redeemed to God through His son Jesus, no matter how much water has passed under the bridge of your life. He has done all of the heavy lifting. Run to Jesus while there is still time left to do so. No one knows when our life on Earth will come to an abrupt stop. Then it will be too late.