Five years ago, I came back to Christ because of a little girl named Jocelyn. She had a rare form of cancer that was inevitably untreatable. Throughout her treatments, she embodied what being like Christ is through her love, laughter, and being the most positive person in the room. After she had passed, I watched her parents accept that she had drifted into nothingness. I was convicted to believe that is not the case, and there must be more with a higher power involved.
But knowing there was a higher power didn't mean I knew how to surrender. Before that moment, I lived by a very simple code that a lot of us in the military, in leadership, and as men are taught to live by: If you are strong enough, you can solve anything. I built a massive suit of armor out of self-reliance, pride, and performance. I thought my job was to be the ultimate, unbreakable anchor for my wife, my kids, and my community.
And when things got heavy—when the stress of life, or the office prisons we find ourselves in, or our own inner demons started raging—I did what a lot of us do: I built a box, I shoved the pain inside, and I buried it deep. I thought hiding the struggle was how I kept the people I loved safe. But here is the spiritual truth I had to learn the hard way: The armor we build to protect ourselves eventually becomes the cage that isolates us. And aloneness is exactly where the enemy wants us, because secrets grow in the dark.
When I came back to Christ, I thought the battle was over. I thought Christians were supposed to have it all figured out. But the reality is that coming to Christ didn't take away the storm, it just changed who was standing in the arena with me.
True surrender isn’t a one-time prayer; it’s a daily, sometimes brutal practice of taking off that heavy, dented armor of self-reliance and letting God be the fortress instead. It means realizing that He doesn’t want our polished or perfect performance. He wants our raw and honest truth.
Over the last five years, God has been methodically tearing down my isolation. He’s been teaching me that "healed" doesn't mean you never face a battle again. It means when the battle comes, you stop trying to fly blind and alone.
To be completely transparent with you all, the rubber met the road for me when I walked out of a base medical clinic after self-enrolling in a substance abuse program. I was given a clinical diagnosis and treatment plan.
Five years ago, that notification would have completely broken my pride. It would have triggered an avalanche of shame, resentment, and isolation. I would have buried it.
But because of what Christ has done in my life, I did something different. I opened the box. I reached out to my best friend, to my leaders, and to my inner circle, and I told them the unapologetic truth.
And you know what happened? The world didn't end. My leadership didn't walk away. Instead, a stadium of people stood up to tell me they were praying for me, cheering for me, and standing in my corner. A trusted friend reminded me of a profound truth: Substance abuse is rarely solved alone, because it was the aloneness that caused it to get so bad. By letting go of the illusion of perfection, God replaced my isolated cage with community and grace.
So I want to ask you the same question I had to face: What are you keeping hidden in your box? What are you trying to carry on your own shoulders because you think you have to be perfect to be loved or respected?
You don't have to carry the lid alone. You are not a burden to others if they are offering to be there for you. Christ is already in the arena with you, and you don't have to be an unbreakable suit of armor; all you have to do is just be an honest human willing to step to the altar. God has empowered you to take the big steps, not because you are perfect, but because He is faithful.
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Five years ago, I came back to Christ because of a little girl named Jocelyn. She had a rare form of cancer that was inevitably untreatable. Throughout her treatments, she embodied what being like Christ is through her love, laughter, and being the most positive person in the room. After she had passed, I watched her parents accept that she had drifted into nothingness. I was convicted to believe that is not the case, and there must be more with a higher power involved.
But knowing there was a higher power didn't mean I knew how to surrender. Before that moment, I lived by a very simple code that a lot of us in the military, in leadership, and as men are taught to live by: If you are strong enough, you can solve anything. I built a massive suit of armor out of self-reliance, pride, and performance. I thought my job was to be the ultimate, unbreakable anchor for my wife, my kids, and my community.
And when things got heavy—when the stress of life, or the office prisons we find ourselves in, or our own inner demons started raging—I did what a lot of us do: I built a box, I shoved the pain inside, and I buried it deep. I thought hiding the struggle was how I kept the people I loved safe. But here is the spiritual truth I had to learn the hard way: The armor we build to protect ourselves eventually becomes the cage that isolates us. And aloneness is exactly where the enemy wants us, because secrets grow in the dark.
When I came back to Christ, I thought the battle was over. I thought Christians were supposed to have it all figured out. But the reality is that coming to Christ didn't take away the storm, it just changed who was standing in the arena with me.
True surrender isn’t a one-time prayer; it’s a daily, sometimes brutal practice of taking off that heavy, dented armor of self-reliance and letting God be the fortress instead. It means realizing that He doesn’t want our polished or perfect performance. He wants our raw and honest truth.
Over the last five years, God has been methodically tearing down my isolation. He’s been teaching me that "healed" doesn't mean you never face a battle again. It means when the battle comes, you stop trying to fly blind and alone.
To be completely transparent with you all, the rubber met the road for me when I walked out of a base medical clinic after self-enrolling in a substance abuse program. I was given a clinical diagnosis and treatment plan.
Five years ago, that notification would have completely broken my pride. It would have triggered an avalanche of shame, resentment, and isolation. I would have buried it.
But because of what Christ has done in my life, I did something different. I opened the box. I reached out to my best friend, to my leaders, and to my inner circle, and I told them the unapologetic truth.
And you know what happened? The world didn't end. My leadership didn't walk away. Instead, a stadium of people stood up to tell me they were praying for me, cheering for me, and standing in my corner. A trusted friend reminded me of a profound truth: Substance abuse is rarely solved alone, because it was the aloneness that caused it to get so bad. By letting go of the illusion of perfection, God replaced my isolated cage with community and grace.
So I want to ask you the same question I had to face: What are you keeping hidden in your box? What are you trying to carry on your own shoulders because you think you have to be perfect to be loved or respected?
You don't have to carry the lid alone. You are not a burden to others if they are offering to be there for you. Christ is already in the arena with you, and you don't have to be an unbreakable suit of armor; all you have to do is just be an honest human willing to step to the altar. God has empowered you to take the big steps, not because you are perfect, but because He is faithful.
Written by
Story Sunday Guest Contributor
Eagle River Campus
16620 Brooks Loop
Eagle River, AK 99577
NE Anchorage Campus
Regal Tikahtnu
1102 N Muldoon Rd B
Anchorage, AK 99504
