Life In God’s House

Some books get written because the author has answers.

This one got written because God would not let me keep the story to myself.

What you are about to read is not a polished account of a man who got everything right. It is the honest testimony of a man who got a great deal wrong, stayed wrong longer than anyone who loved him deserved, and somehow found himself on the other side of it still standing – still preaching, still building, still becoming. The distance between who I was and who I am belongs entirely to God. I take credit for the failures. He gets credit for everything else.

I wrote this book for the man who is still in the middle of it. The one who has told himself one more time too many. The one whose family has run out of reasons to believe him but has not quite run out of love. The one who knows, somewhere beneath all the noise and the numbing, that he was made for more than this and cannot find his way to it.

I was that man. For years, I was exactly that man.

I also wrote this for the woman standing in a house that feels empty, playing a tape of somebody else’s prophecy because faith is the only thing left in the room. Her faithfulness holds more power than she knows. This book carries her fingerprints too.

Read it slowly. Take what belongs to you. Leave what does not.

And if any part of this story sounds like your story – stay with it. God is not finished writing yours either.