Randy

I grew up as a "military brat" with a father in the Air Force. As a child, I only remember attending church a handful of times, but I was raised with a Christian background and a basic understanding of God. My childhood was comfortable—upper-middle class—and as an only child, I never wanted for much. Everything changed in 1996.

I was sixteen, and my dad retired. We moved our single-wide mobile home from Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland to Cub Run, Kentucky, placing it on a plot on my maternal grandparents' land. Later that year, or early into the next, my dad left my mother for another woman.

It was a pivotal moment that sent my life spiraling into darkness. I am 100% confident that God let me experience these times to make me the man that I am today. My mom took a very dark path as a result and began using drugs, drinking, and running the streets. She was broken, and no one was prepared to help her.

Whether intentional or not, she dragged me into this world as well. Every drug I’ve ever done, with the exception of weed, I tried for the first time with her. At sixteen, this set a precedent for me that this kind of life was okay. At the time, I held a lot of anger for those around me, who were supposed to be my guardians/mentors/loved ones. I spent a lot of time fending for myself and learning about the hardships of life, without a helping hand.

Looking back, this is where I see God truly starting to show up. One tragic day, on a bus ride home from school, the bus rounded a corner, and we passed an accident on the side of the road. I looked out the window and saw a 1993 Chevy Cavalier buried deep into some trees. My heart stopped—it was my mom’s car.

I exploded into a blind panic. I ran to the front of the bus, screaming at the bus driver to stop and let me out right there. I needed to get to her. But the driver wouldn't do it; he kept driving despite my shouting and desperation. He finally let me off about a mile up the road at a friend’s house.

My mom was severely injured, but she lived. She spent months in the hospital before finally coming home. I feel like God was letting her know with that accident that she needed to slow down, but she did not listen. After coming home, I watched her addiction progress from "self-medicating" the pain to becoming a full-blown addict. She began shooting up cocaine, claiming it was the only way to deal with the agony of her injuries.

What started as a couple of hours a day in the bathroom quickly turned into four or five, and then five or six hours at a time. I knew exactly what was happening behind that door. It resulted in constant, explosive fights between us. I was a teenager watching my mother disappear into a needle, and the anger and frustration of those years left scars on both of us.

Then came the repercussions. While I was swimming at Jellystone Park, I got the call that she’d had another accident—a massive stroke while driving caused by a blood clot from the first wreck. She lost all feeling on the right side of her body. I believe God allowed the warning, but when she didn't listen, her life was forever changed.

During this time, before my dad eventually moved to Texas and before my mom’s second accident, I went to visit him at the house he was sharing with his new girlfriend. Up until this night, I had no real opinion on the existence of God or the supernatural. I was a skeptic. I thought Ouija boards were just cardboard toys you bought at a department store. I figured whenever the planchette moved, it was just people playing tricks and pushing it themselves.

I didn't believe in ghosts, and I certainly didn't believe in magic. That night changed everything. My dad’s girlfriend was a certified witch; she had actually gone to school to learn the practice of black magic. The atmosphere in that house was unlike anything I had ever felt. She set the stage with a specific number of black and white candles and brought out an old, weathered book of witchcraft.

She began reciting passages from the book, and as the words filled the room, the weather outside physically shifted. A sudden, heavy storm seemed to roll in out of nowhere, and an eerie, thick feeling fell over the room that made the hair on my arms stand up. She told us she was going to contact the spirit of a man who used to live in that very house—a man who had passed away within those walls.

We sat around the Ouija board, and for a moment, there was a deafening silence. I was waiting for the planchette to start sliding, ready to call out whoever was "pushing" it. But it didn't slide. Instead, without anyone touching it, the entire board suddenly flew off the table as if it had been struck by an invisible hand.

I was done. I didn't need any more proof. I tell this story because I learned that night that in order to believe in God, you must also believe in the devil. This was my first undeniable experience seeing that the "other side" was real, and it was terrifying. It made me realize that if there was a darkness that powerful, there had to be a Light to counter it.

Life continued in a haze of transitions. I graduated high school and went on to college, spending a couple of years recording a rap album with a group. It was a time of creativity and growth, but it was also when the spiritual battle in my family reached a fever pitch. After I graduated high school, my dad finally left for Texas with the witch.

I’ve always believed—whether he’d ever admit it or not—that she had a literal spell on him. It was the only way I could make sense of a man walking away from everything he knew to follow someone like her. But a couple of years later, he returned. He was a different man. I often wonder what kind of harrowing experiences he had while away with her, but whatever happened, it drove him straight to the Lord.

Not long after his return, he started preaching. This was a massive turning point for me; I began to understand the role that good versus evil plays in all of our lives. Shortly after that chapter, things took a dark turn. I met some new people through mutual friends and entered the world of methamphetamine. Even then, in the middle of that poison, I can now look back and know that God was watching over me through the prayers of a father who was walking close with the Lord.

There were three specific times that my life, as I knew it, should have ended. First, the raid. I was lying under a bed in a house where we were cooking meth. A sheriff knocked at the door for other reasons. Somehow, he didn't smell the chemical odor blasting out of the open windows, and he simply left.

Second, the wreck. I wrecked my car on the ice, sliding down a hill and ramming the back end into a rock wall. I had a tank of anhydrous in the trunk, but somehow, it didn't blow.

And third, the stop. I was pulled over by a state trooper. In the car, I had a sawed-off shotgun, a pound of weed, and an ounce of meth. He didn't search the vehicle. I know now that I wasn't lucky—I was protected. I knew I had always felt a presence around me after my dad returned from Texas, and looking back on events like these, I know he was there.

The house where my new life began was actually a place full of old memories. It was the same house I had spent most of my high school years in—where my best friend Adam and his mom lived. One day, I was there visiting some mutual friends when the door opened. It was Wendy. She was staying there at the time and was just getting home from work.

I was instantly in love. We just clicked, and within a couple of weeks, we were inseparable. But she was carrying a heavy burden; she was going through dark times, and her mother had taken custody of her three children. One night, as we were heading back to her house, I pulled into the driveway and saw an officer waiting at the door.

Wendy had a warrant for child support, and they were looking for her. She hid in the car while I got out to see what was happening. I pretended like I was also looking for her, playing along so we could get away. We rode around for a bit and eventually headed back toward her house, but before we got there, we passed that same officer.

I saw him turning around in my rearview mirror. I floored it. I knew those back roads better than anyone. I cut down a few rows and headed toward a little gravel road that connected Edmonson and Hart County. It was freezing outside, and while the main roads were clear from a recent snowstorm, this gravel road was completely buried in snow and ice. About a quarter-mile down, my car got stuck between two steep hills. We had no choice but to walk.

About halfway out, the cold and the stress hit Wendy hard. She started having a severe asthma attack. I ended up carrying her all the way to a house at the beginning of that road. We knocked on the door, and a man let us in, but by this point, Wendy had stopped breathing. I rushed her to the couch and began CPR. After a couple of rounds, she finally started breathing again.

The man had already called an ambulance, and I had called an old friend who lived close by to come get us. Wendy declined medical treatment when the ambulance arrived, and we got into my friend's car. But just a few miles up the road, the officer caught up with us. He pulled us over, arrested Wendy, and found drugs in her purse.

Despite everything— despite only being together a few weeks—I knew she was the one. I wasn't going to abandon her. While Wendy was locked up, I continued my drug-filled lifestyle—making, using, and dealing. I even took over several of her old contacts now that she was off the streets. I was so convinced she was the right one that I took it upon myself to meet her mother and her kids while she was behind bars.

I visited them several times just to tell them their mom said hello and to see if I could help in any way. I even met her dad at the jail during a visit, and I liked him instantly. It let me know I was on the right path with her. Then, one night, everything changed.

I was at a known trap house when I heard my own name and car description come across their police scanner. I immediately left. On the drive home, I had a conversation with myself—and with God—about needing to change. That night, I committed to living right. I started reading the Bible and walked away from drugs completely.

Thankfully, Wendy had been doing some contemplating as well. She was fully on board with a new life dedicated to God and family. When Wendy finally got out, everything fell into place. We got a house, got her kids back, and got married. A year later, we had a son. Life was finally good.

But somewhere along the way, we forgot why things were going so well. We stopped devoting time to God. Then, the crisis hit. Wendy got really sick. She was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy—an enlarged heart that was only functioning at 25%. We spent the next few months living in the hospital. She was placed on the heart transplant list and was called once to the hospital and put on the table to await a transplant, but the heart she was to receive was no good.

This is another moment in our life that, with a quick look back at the circumstances, you can see God was still with us. If she had gotten that transplant, it’s likely she wouldn’t still be here today, as the life expectancy is only around 10 years after a heart transplant. She also underwent surgery for a pacemaker, all at 26 years old.

It was a terrifying time, and to this day, I wonder if that challenge was a consequence of us not devoting our time to God. Over time, Wendy began to get better. It wasn’t overnight, but the pacemaker did its job, and slowly, she found her strength again and eventually returned to work. Between that crisis with her heart and the next crisis, there were about fourteen years of "normalcy."

Those fourteen years were filled with the everyday grind of life. I was working heavily at the plant, working my way up the ranks, and we were focused on raising our children. We were busy, we were productive, and on the surface, we were living good lives. But during those many years, my feelings toward God became quiet.

I wasn't running from Him, but I wasn't looking for Him either. I fell into the trap of self-reliance. When life is going well, and you're working hard and providing for your family, it’s easy to start believing that you are the one in control. I felt distant from God because I felt like I didn't "need" Him in the day-to-day. I was doing it all on my own strength.

That distance left a void, and in that void, I found a new addiction: video games. I would walk through the door after a long shift and head straight for the console. I became a ghost in my own home. I neglected Wendy completely; she would sit alone, night after night, watching television. I realize now that I drove her away, pushing her to pick up more shifts at work just to avoid the loneliness of our home. We were living together, but we were miles apart.

The routine of those fourteen years was broken forever in 2015. A massive snowstorm hit, and my mom called me at work. She needed groceries. I was short with her—I was stressed at the plant, we were short-handed, and the weather was a mess. The next day, I finally made it to the store, and then I took the groceries to her apartment in Cave City.

When I walked in, I found her. She was gone. Losing my mother felt like losing a piece of myself. For years, my identity had been tied to taking care of her. I was the one who took her to the grocery store; I was the one who drove her to all her doctor's appointments. I was the one she called for everything.

When she died, that part of who I was died too. I felt like I had lost my purpose. The weight of our last conversation—me being aggravated at her for needing me—pushed me into a dark place. I turned toward an atheist view, unable to understand how a "good God" could let me feel that type of pain. I felt empty and abandoned.

But there was a silver lining in that storm. Despite the years I had spent neglecting her for video games, Wendy showed up for me in a way I could never repay. She stepped in and handled everything—the funeral, cleaning out my mom's place, and carrying the load while I was too broken to move. Her selflessness was the wake-up call I needed.

I saw clearly what a waste of time the gaming had been and how much I had been hurting the woman who was now saving me. I dropped the video games right then and there. Losing my mother was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, but it was the event that finally allowed me to find my wife again.

The peace we found after my mother’s death didn't last. In 2017, Wendy’s father committed suicide. That tragedy was made even more bitter by a brutal family battle. Her brother and his wife, who had been living with her dad, completely turned against us.

They excluded us from every decision, every arrangement, and every piece of the aftermath. We were allowed to attend the funeral, but that was it. The pain of being shut out by family while mourning a father was almost too much to bear. Then, in 2021, Wendy’s mother suddenly passed away. It was a cruel mirror image of my own trauma—Wendy and her mother had been in a fight for a couple of weeks before she died. Her last words to her mom were negative, and the guilt began to tear her apart from the inside.

By this point, we were both barely hanging on to our sanity. Our hearts had been torn to pieces, stitch by stitch, over those years of constant loss and family betrayal. One random morning, Wendy brought drugs home from work. We were so broken and so tired. We both felt a void between us, and the stress of life made this look like a good opportunity to have a little fun and forget our problems for a day.

So, being completely blind to the years of pain that drug had already caused us, we gave in for one more time. But "one time" turned into a weekend here and there, then often enough that I saw it becoming a problem and tried to stop it. I knew she was having a really hard time with the loss of her mom, and she was using to keep the hurt at bay.

I gave her an empty ultimatum one weekend, telling her she had to choose. But looking at her, I knew I couldn't leave her in that darkness alone. I didn't want to lose her. So, the weekends became weeks, and eventually, the drugs became our daily reality.

The years leading up to 2025 are a blur of work and daily drug use. On April 25, 2025, I woke up for work feeling extra tired; we had been out of drugs for a couple of days. I kissed Wendy goodbye and climbed into my 2015 Ford F-150. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital.

The physical toll was high: several fractures in my spine, a fractured sternum, and a shattered right ankle. But the news Wendy gave me the next day was worse. I had hit someone. A young woman on her way to pick up her husband. She had small children of her own. Learning that I had taken a mother away from her children broke my heart. I don’t think the guilt of that moment will ever truly leave me.

In rehab, I felt God’s presence clearly. I felt I had been allowed to live to restore Wendy’s faith. But the road to recovery was paved with a different trap. When my prescription pain medications ran out, the withdrawal was more than I could bear. In a moment of desperation, I asked Wendy for the meth I knew she still had.

In that moment, the "mission" I felt from God simply vanished. I slipped back into using. Seven months passed. Then, one night, several police cars pulled into my driveway. I had been indicted for the accident. Jail was the hardest period of my life. My first week was spent in a "turtle suit" on suicide watch in an isolation cell. It almost drove me to insanity.

But even there, God appeared. A family friend who worked at the jail moved me to a trustee cell where the men would look after me. It was in that jail that I truly met God. During a Monday night church service, I fell to my knees, crying out for forgiveness. In an instant, I felt a physical weight—the years of sadness and guilt—lift off my body. I knew then that despite my mistakes, God still had a plan for me.

I started writing my story. A guest speaker—a former inmate—inspired me to share my testimony to help others. I spent my days rotating between writing this story and writing prayers in my notebook. Then came the trial of patience. After my third bond hearing, my bond was reduced. I accessed my 401k, but cashing the check was nearly impossible. I was fuming with frustration.

My dad told me, "Never pray for patience, because the answer usually comes in the form of a trial to overcome." Just as we found a bank, a massive ice storm shut everything down. When I looked back at my prayer journal, I realized that the day before the storm hit, I had prayed for patience.

I have been out for a month. I am staying on the path, but God knew I couldn't save Wendy on my own. Just two days before her recent arrest, Wendy and I were discussing her addiction. In a moment of total honesty, she told me she wished she would be put in a position where she had no choice but to stop. She immediately tried to take it back—she knew that "no choice" meant jail or a hospital—but I believe God heard her heart.

Now, she sits in a cell, exactly where she said she needed to be to find her way back. Looking back at everything, I see the pattern. When the bus driver wouldn't let me off, God was protecting a sixteen-year-old boy. When the police scanner called my name, God was calling me home. When the ice storm stalled my bond, He was teaching me to trust His timing.

My mother and father made some mistakes, but they all prepared me to handle whatever situation I was faced with. I am so thankful for the man my dad has become. He is a great example of how great a man can be when he gives it all to God, and that’s a light in the darkness that’s got me through the last couple of years.

Sometimes we think God is silent because He isn't giving us the answer we want, but in reality, He is busy arranging the pieces of our lives to save us from ourselves. He was there in the hospital; He was there in the "turtle suit," and He is there in that jail cell with Wendy right now. My mission now is to keep walking this path and to help her find the same Light that found me. Amen.