Here is my story
I lived in unforgiveness, and the only person it really hurt was me. I isolated myself, put myself on an island of one.
And like they say—hurting people hurt people. That was me.
God even sent the very people I blamed for my wounds to me, and they asked for forgiveness. But I refused to believe it was real. Truth is, I didn’t want off that island. I used it as my excuse to stay there. Over time, I even grew angry at God and blamed Him for my pain. That unforgiveness turned into bitterness, that bitterness turned into anger, and eventually I hated the very thing I knew I needed—the church.
My sweet wife, who I am so grateful for, would get up on Sunday mornings and faithfully go. And I’d laugh at her and say, “You’re wasting your time. Church doesn’t help anybody. It’s all fake.”
I was so full of hate that I tried to destroy anything that reminded me of the answer I didn’t want to face.
Living in unforgiveness is like being a wounded animal caught in a snare. You just want to justify why you’re stuck there. And when people come along and try to help, you lash out and push them away. That was me. I lived that way for 16 years.
I’d see my father, tears in his eyes from praying for me, and it convicted me every time. But I’d talk with him for a few minutes, then run right back to my island.
That island became my familiar place. I’d replay my hurts, pick up the broken pictures of what I used to be, and blame others for what I had become.
Over the years, God sent great men of faith across my path. Legends. Men I admired. They pulled up to my little island and spoke words I was starving to hear. They invited me into the boat, but every time I refused. I’d tell myself, “I’ll just stay here a little longer.” But days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. And 16 years later, I looked in the mirror, 55 years old, and saw a white-bearded castaway still stuck on that same old island of unforgiveness.
Here’s the truth I learned: I put myself there. Everyone else kept on living their lives, enjoying what God had for them. And me? I sat stuck, telling myself lies like, “I only need God. Just me and Jesus on this island. I don’t need church. I don’t need people.” But the truth is—I did. I needed people. I needed the church. I needed a man of God in my life. No man is an island—I see that so clearly now.
Then one night, God gave me a dream. I was climbing a mountain, and at the top was an ark. The ramp was down, and above the door were these words: “The door is still open—come inside.” As I walked up and stepped in, a white light brighter than anything I’d ever seen filled the darkness. I woke up full of God’s Spirit. And the anger, frustration, bitterness—they were gone.
I packed up what little I had left on my island, looked around one last time, and waved goodbye. And I realized something—it wasn’t until I took that first step toward God that He moved toward me. The moment I stepped off the island, He was there to carry me the rest of the way.
Now, I stand in church again. And when I hear a pastor cry out with God’s heart, I cry too—because I can see the people still stuck on their little islands. And I know they don’t want to be there.
So here’s my testimony: I will never again be silent. I will never again be a “Professional Christian.” I will spend my life helping other castaways find the strength to step into the boat and come home.
Because the door is still open, and life outside the island 🏝️ is better than anything you ever imagined.div>