It was a Saturday afternoon I’ll never forget. I was 17 years old and hanging out at a friend’s house when I found myself kneeling next to an old Jeep, my trembling hands clasped together as I cried out to God. It was more out of sheer exhaustion and desperation than any religious formality.
At that point I realized my life was killing me—from my very own choices. I was living from moment to moment, crisis to crisis, looking for the next experience—drinking, stealing, sex, anything—that would make me feel alive inside again. For years, I had been trying to escape from the pain of life’s circumstances.
As I knelt there, alone, I didn’t realize what I was doing and didn’t really care. But I knew I was giving up—and that’s all that mattered to God.