Proof The Bible Is True

I stepped out of the federal prison in South Dakota after a decade behind bars and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d served my time. But I wasn’t just free. I was a new man. Honestly, I doubted anyone who knew me before would recognize me. I hardly recognized me.

 

My home life hadn’t been great growing up. My dad died in a car accident when I was just 10. He’d been abusive and violent. An alcoholic. When I was 16, my mother remarried. Another alcoholic. My stepfather handed me my first beer at 18. “Drink up,” he said. “You’re a man now.” I did. I drank and drank. Soon I was drinking like my old man.

 

In college, I got into drugs. Smoking pot at first, then popping pills and dropping acid. After two years, I dropped out and opened a successful neighborhood tavern. By then, cocaine was my drug of choice. I made good money but not enough to support my addiction. I started selling drugs on the side. I told myself I was able to balance it all.

 

That illusion shattered the first time I smoked crack cocaine. It was the most intense high I’d ever felt. I couldn’t get enough. I was awake for days at a time, wired. I spent $2,000 a week chasing that ever-elusive high. I had to sell more and more drugs to pay for it. I started missing work. I was a mess. Still, I didn’t see what was coming.

 

On April 10, 1991, I left work for the day. DEA agents surrounded me in the parking lot. They handcuffed me, read me my rights. I knew it was over. I was 42 and facing up to 20 years in federal prison for drug trafficking.

 

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