Confessions: The Night God Whispered
Rock Bottom and My Last Dance with Alcohol
This marks the beginning of a new segment I call Confessions. As with all gossip, I’m sure it will be entertaining. I hope you choose to see beyond that.
These are the stories I never wanted to share—moments of shame, of sin, of darkness. But they are also moments of grace, of revelation, of transformation. My hope is that these reflections encourage you to confront your own suffering, to confess your sins, and in doing so, be freed.
Each confession will vary in tone and weight. Some are difficult to read, and perhaps harder still to write. But reader discretion is not only advised—it is invited. Read with your soul, not just your eyes.
For in exposing sin, we rob the enemy of his power. We strip evil of its ammunition, and we loosen its grip on our lives.
And above all, I pray that these confessions offer one message that echoes louder than all the rest:
There is hope for every single one of us.
Even in the pit.
Even after the fall.
Even when we believe we’ve gone too far.This is my story of rock bottom—the night God whispered, and I chose to listen.
I sat in angst, listening to my heart, praying that the next beat would come. I stayed like that for hours, until the stillness grew too loud for my restless soul.
I drove aimlessly. I ran. I walked—hoping the next step would lift me out of my body.
So heavy was my suffering on the day God came to me.
It was late at night. I had been frantically visiting friends in search of distraction, but I could barely stay more than a few minutes anywhere. The agony of anticipation gripped me—I was certain the song in my heart was playing its final note. The drum would soon cease.
I made a final stop at my parents’ house. But the throbbing in my ears drowned out any sound that might have comforted me. I know how far gone I must have seemed—staring into eternal nothingness. I felt their worry. They had every right to worry. But I was helpless to their reassurance.
I had drowned myself in alcohol for five days. I was in withdrawal. I was completely defeated.
In that moment, I surrendered to death. If death had come to take me that night, it would have been a relief. I sat in my car and called upon death to steal the next beat from my heart.
There was complete silence.
All but the blood pulsing in my ears had ceased. Even the river of thought in my mind had run dry.
And then, from the depths of despair, a whisper rose.
“Why?”
I had no choice but to listen. The word rose from my chest to my throat and repeatedly parted my lips. “Why?” Over and over. The song on my heart was replaced by a broken record.
Until finally the tears came—boiling up from within me like a fountain. The question cried out through me, summoning the strength of every soul that had ever wept before God. Something within me awakened, something ancient and powerful. A beast—but not one of destruction. A force that cried out for justice. For meaning. For truth.
It was not me. It was something far older, far deeper. I realized then—I do not belong to myself.
How poorly I had treated this spirit within me, with all of my hedonistic indulgence. That night, it returned with a vengeance—not to destroy me, but to claim me.
And now, it has become my friend.
My pen now writes with the ink drawn from that night—from that well of burning tears. That spirit possessed me and took back its rightful place. My body trembled. My hands clenched into fists I could not open. I wept until I could not see. I could not move. I could only weep. I was made a child in the womb.
I cursed myself. I cursed the lies of this world. I cursed those who knew the truth and concealed it—or worse, distorted it.
How dare you? I cried.
How dare you?
And then, from far away, yet so near, an answer:
Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You chose to listen. Because you fell on your own, now you must rise alone. Go and see for yourself the truth about the world.
That was the moment everything became clear. My tears softened my heart. My soul was washed clean. In minutes, the story of my life was unmade. The flood came. And I had nowhere to run.
Like a child, I cried out.
And then the ark arrived.
While the evil was drowning in Light, my sliver of faith, still buried, waited for the flood to subside.
I was led to call my father.
With clenched fists and blurred vision, I spoke his name.
He came to me. He saved me.
I love him for that. I pray that every father finds the strength to be like mine.
However, the true message was this:
The call I made to my earthly father was only a shadow of the call I was meant to make.
It was my soul crying out for our Father in Heaven—the only One who can truly save us.
And He had been knocking on my heart all day long.
I thank God I was called to listen. Had I not been focused on my heart, I would have never heard His voice.
It was then I became Israel, and relied on God to lead me through the desert.
For that reason, I don’t often pray to be saved. I pray to be broken.
For when I am weak, I am strong.
— St. Paul the Apostle
Very deep- what a calling!!!!