God wants my time

Twice in my life, I felt an urgent and relentless call to devote a significant amount of time alone with God in deep conversation, a task that seemed almost impossible at the time.

This is a prologue to a book I hope to write:

The Call to “Come”

Chapter 1: A Yearning for More

Setting: November 20, 2000

It began with a deep hunger—a yearning that had quietly grown over the past year, following a season in my life marked by fear, rejection, isolation, and personal turmoil. Each day, I woke with a gnawing emptiness—a sense that I was missing something vital, though I knew deep down in my inner being what it was. The routines of life felt hollow, the walls of isolation too thick to break through. I longed for something deeper, something real—but I was afraid to find it again.

There was a time when life felt vibrant, alive with possibility. I could still remember fleeting glimpses of it: the warmth of sunlight spilling through the trees, the quiet hum of connection in a loved one’s presence, the unshakable belief that the world held more than shadows. But time had dulled those moments, each passing day building another layer of doubt, another brick in the walls I had so carefully constructed.

I told myself it was safer this way. To hope meant to risk, and to risk meant to open myself to rejection and the pain that came with it. I had learned that lesson too well. The fear of being dismissed, of exposing the fragile parts of myself only to watch them be shattered, was too great a burden to bear. And yet, that was not the only fear that haunted me.

In the darkest corners of my thoughts, a deeper terror lurked—a fear of the unseen world, of the shadowy forces that I had felt but could never fully understand. I had glimpsed it before, the immense power of that unseen realm, its ugly depths and suffocating darkness. It was a world that seemed to whisper from the shadows, a silent pull toward something vast and consuming. The memory of its oppressive weight, the terror of what I couldn’t control or comprehend, had kept me bound for so long. To seek something deeper meant risking a confrontation with that realm—one that I wasn’t sure I could survive.

The fear of rejection and the fear of the unseen worked in tandem, relentless and unyielding. They whispered to me in the quiet hours of the night, weaving together a tapestry of dread that kept me paralyzed. The unseen darkness seemed to watch from the periphery of my thoughts, a constant, oppressive presence that felt almost sentient. How could I push forward when I feared both the rejection of the living and the grasp of something far more insidious?

Still, even in the confines of my self-made prison, a quiet rebellion stirred—a flicker of defiance against the emptiness and the darkness that sought to define me. Beneath the fear was something else: a faint yet insistent pulse, like a distant drumbeat, calling me to move, to search, to find. It was a rhythm that resonated beyond the reach of the darkness, a glimmer of something that felt untouchable by the shadowed realm that loomed over me.

What would I discover if I followed that rhythm? Would I unravel the threads of my carefully maintained numbness, or would I fall further into the grip of the unseen darkness? The questions haunted me, and yet, they carried a strange kind of hope—a hope that terrified and intrigued me in equal measure.

So, I waited. I existed in that space between fear and longing, between memory and desire, caught in the tenuous balance of not quite living and not yet daring to dream.

But deep within, I knew the day would come when the ache for something more—something real—would outweigh the safety of my solitude. And when that moment arrived, I would have a choice: to remain in the darkness I knew so well, or to risk everything for the faint glimmer of light that waited just beyond the walls. Even if it meant standing face to face with the shadowed depths of the unseen, I would have to decide whether to confront the darkness or remain forever its captive.

Enough years had passed, bringing this chapter to a near close. The wounds it left behind had faded, though their scars still whispered of pain and lessons hard-won. Yet now, I felt a new hope stirring within me—a quiet assurance that perhaps, just perhaps, healing was closer than I had dared to imagine.

Chapter 2: A Friendship That Became a Lifeline

That hope was born from an unexpected source: a friendship that had begun to grow in the midst of life’s routines. I had gained a friend I could talk to, someone with whom I could share my thoughts and struggles without fear of judgment. Over time, our families began to spend time together, gathering regularly and forming a bond that felt both natural and deeply meaningful.

For nearly a year, our visits were simply moments of connection, shared meals, and the comfort of community. But it was a year later, when we began meeting weekly, that this friendship became something more—a lifeline. Those weekly conversations, filled with honesty, prayer, and a shared hunger for renewal, breathed new life into the places I thought were too broken to restore.

This rhythm of connection became an anchor for my soul, a steadying force that reminded me I wasn’t alone. Week after week, we sought God together, wrestling with questions, seeking answers, and holding space for one another’s hopes and fears. It was in those moments that something deeper began to stir—a subtle yet persistent movement beneath the surface of my life, like the first stirrings of spring after a harsh winter.

What had started as casual gatherings of our families had blossomed into something sacred, something that carried the quiet promise of transformation. I didn’t yet know where it would lead, but I could feel it—hope, healing, and possibility were drawing closer. This new season wasn’t just about leaving the past behind; it was about stepping into something new, something alive, and for the first time in a long time, I was ready.

Both of us felt it—a deep restlessness, an unshakable longing for something more in our lives. The familiar rhythms of church and daily life had begun to feel hollow. The sermons, the routines, the predictability—they left us yearning for more. What we craved wasn’t another program or obligation; it was a deeper intimacy with God. His presence. His voice. The abundant life He promised in Scripture.

It only took a simple Sunday morning conversation to reveal that our hearts were yearning for the same thing. My friend, a gifted and talented electric guitar player who loved God deeply, had become a trusted presence in my life. He had a passion for leading the church congregation in worship, often pouring his heart into crafting just the right set of songs for each service. His quirkiness and sense of humor brought lightness to even the heaviest conversations, and his cheeky banter with God felt like an extension of his authentic faith. He was the kind of person who could debate with Jesus whether a song should be in E minor or G major as if it were a matter of national security—and somehow, it always came across as endearing.

Over time, I came to see not just his talent and devotion, but the depth of his own longing for something more. As we spent time together, it became clear that we were both restless for a greater intimacy with God—a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied by the usual rhythms of life.

Chapter 3: An Invitation From Scripture

One evening, my friend brought up a Scripture that had deeply moved him earlier that day:

"If My people, who are called by My name, will humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land." —2 Chronicles 7:14

Those words hit us like a lightning bolt. They weren’t just a verse to reflect on—they felt like a contract slid across the table, with God’s signature already on it and an empty line waiting for ours. They weren’t just a verse to reflect on—they were a direct challenge. A divine invitation from God Himself.

For a moment, we sat in silence, the gravity of the call sinking in. God was asking His people to humble themselves, to pray with fervor, to seek Him without reservation, and to turn away from sin. The promise that followed was nothing short of extraordinary: forgiveness, transformation, and healing—on a personal level, a corporate level, even a national scale.

That night, as we prayed together, we felt the weight of what lay before us—a holy awe mixed with the fear of our own inadequacy. The realization of what we were being asked to do was overwhelming, yet it stirred something deep within us: a burning conviction that we couldn’t ignore. This was no casual decision; it was a call to action that demanded everything. With hearts pounding, we made a solemn commitment. We wouldn’t just talk about seeking God—we would truly pursue Him, no matter the cost. Supporting one another, holding each other accountable, and chasing after Him with unwavering resolve became our shared mission. It was daunting, yes, but also thrilling—a spark of hope lit within us at the thought of what God might do through our obedience.

We clung to the belief that God would honor His word, trusting that if we sought Him with all our hearts, He would meet us there. But could we have known what that commitment would demand? We didn’t imagine it then, but looking back, I’d like to think Job might’ve appreciated having someone to pass the ash bucket to. In those early days, we couldn’t comprehend the trials ahead, but we did know one thing: we needed each other. Our shared mission became a lifeline—a bond that would anchor us when the storms came. Together, we strengthened one another, holding fast to the promises we had clung to that night. Little did we know, that resolve—and that partnership—would become our saving grace as we were stretched and transformed in ways we never could have foreseen.

This was no ordinary prayer time. It was the threshold of something sacred—the beginning of a divine call, an invitation to step into a deeper, more intimate walk with the Creator. As we embraced the promise of 2nd Chronicles 7:14, it felt as though heaven itself was opening before us. With hearts full of anticipation and trembling resolve, our journey began—one step at a time, guided by His hand.

Chapter 4: A Supernatural Awakening

The night of our commitment had passed, but my mind was anything but still. It churned relentlessly, weaving a vivid tapestry of what-ifs and unknowns—possibilities that felt both thrilling and overwhelming. The weight of our prayer pressed deeply into my spirit, stirring a restlessness I couldn’t calm. Each thought danced between awe and fear, as if my imagination were daring me to believe in something far greater than myself, even while reminding me of all the ways I might fall short. I knew the cost of failure all too well—the pain it left behind, not just for me, but for those who had stood closest. The memories lingered like shadows, whispering caution, yet even in the midst of that weight, something stirred—a quiet voice urging me to hope again, to risk again, to believe that this time could be different.

It was like God was trying to get into my heart with a crowbar, determined to rip that door wide open. I felt exposed, as if every layer I’d carefully constructed—every excuse, every fear, every defense—was being pried apart. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was a force I couldn’t resist, pulling me toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready for, yet somehow knew I couldn’t live without.

Even when I drifted off to sleep, my mind stayed restless, churning through what this commitment might mean for my life. The dreams shifted seamlessly from my waking thoughts into a dark, surreal landscape. I was standing in the middle of an endless hallway lined with doors, each one slightly ajar. A faint, flickering light seeped through the cracks, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. As I walked, whispers emerged from behind the doors—soft at first, then growing louder, overlapping until they became a chorus of accusations.

I tried to push one door open, but it slammed shut before I could enter. The whispers turned into sharp, mocking laughter that echoed down the corridor. Each step forward felt heavier, as though the floor beneath me was sinking into quicksand. Faces appeared in the shadows—vague, shifting forms of people I once knew. Their expressions were cold, their eyes unseeing, as if they looked straight through me. I reached out, but they turned away, fading into the darkness as though I hadn’t been there at all.

Suddenly, the walls of the hallway began to close in, the once-open doors disappearing into the shadows. The space grew narrower and narrower, until I could barely move. Panic clawed at my chest as I felt the weight of rejection press down on me, suffocating and unrelenting. No matter which way I turned, there was no escape—just the oppressive certainty that I didn’t belong, that I would never measure up.

I woke with a start, gasping for air, my heart pounding as the last echoes of laughter faded into silence. The dream left me shaken, its grip lingering like a cold shadow. Was this a reflection of my own fears, or a warning of the cost of stepping into the unknown?

When I drifted back into sleep, the scene shifted. I was sitting in a simple kitchen, across from a young man whose story poured out between deep sobs. He spoke of loss, addiction, and failure, his voice trembling as his eyes darted toward the door, as if ready to bolt. I wanted so badly to say the right thing, to offer something meaningful, but my words felt stuck. All I could do was pray silently, pleading for wisdom and strength to guide him. Even in the dream, I felt the weight of his burdens as though they were my own.

When I awoke, the dreams lingered, their weight heavy on my spirit. They weren’t random or meaningless; they felt like glimpses of what this commitment might demand—urgency, compassion, and unrelenting faith. The exhaustion of the night stayed with me, but so did a quiet certainty. Whatever lay ahead was far bigger than I could comprehend, and it would stretch me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.

Yet, the next morning, before the sun was even close to rising, something extraordinary happened.

I woke—not to the shrill beep of an alarm, but to the sound of music.

This wasn’t ordinary music. It wasn’t coming from a radio, a stereo, or any device in the house. The stillness of the early morning remained unbroken. Yet, the melody filled the space around me, resonating deep within my spirit. It was otherworldly—pure, ethereal, and alive.

For a moment, I could have thought I was still dreaming. Even as I stirred, my mind struggled to sort fiction from reality. Where else could this music be coming from? It wasn’t just sound; it was something more, something sacred. The notes seemed to carry a meaning too profound for words, as though they were speaking directly to my soul.

I lay motionless, torn between awe and disbelief, afraid that any movement might shatter the fragile beauty of the moment. My heart recognized it as divine, even as my mind grappled with its impossibility. Whether I was caught in a lingering dream or witnessing something supernatural, it left me changed. The echoes of that melody lingered in my spirit long after it faded into silence, like the first notes of a symphony I was only beginning to hear.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the melody faded, leaving a charged silence in its wake—a silence that wasn’t empty, but brimming with meaning. In that moment, the two worlds I had been straddling—the surreal dreamscape and my waking reality—seemed to merge into one. The lingering haze of sleep gave way to clarity, and I realized this was no dream.

Something profound had happened. The music wasn’t a figment of my imagination or a lingering thread from restless sleep. The room, dimly lit by the soft glow of the alarm clock, seemed almost frozen in time. The air carried a stillness so complete it felt weighty, as though the very molecules were holding their breath. The faint outline of furniture stood in quiet silhouette—the dresser, the bedside table and lamp, the bookcase with its small stack of dusty books. Everything familiar was unchanged, yet the atmosphere had shifted entirely.

The air around me felt alive, charged with an energy I couldn’t explain, as if an unseen force was humming just beyond my senses. It wasn’t loud, but it was undeniable, like the subtle vibration of an engine that had just been brought to life. A faint warmth spread through the room, not physical but deeply spiritual, wrapping around me like a cocoon. The ordinary space seemed to shimmer with meaning, as though the very walls had been transformed into holy ground.

My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears as the unmistakable awareness settled over me: the presence of God was standing before me. There was no visible form, no blazing light or dramatic spectacle, yet I knew—knew with every fiber of my being—that I was not alone. This wasn’t just the music that had reached me; it was Him. He had come.

And in that moment, I was utterly undone. Every defense, every fear, every doubt fell away like dry leaves in a storm. The sheer magnitude of His presence was overwhelming, filling every corner of the room, every inch of my soul.

Then, breaking through the charged silence, I heard it—a single, unmistakable word.

'Come.'

It wasn’t a whisper, nor was it distant. The word was clear, resonating with an authority that left no room for doubt. Yet it was gentle, laced with an unmistakable invitation. “Come.”

In that instant, it was as though the word reverberated through every fiber of my being, shaking me to my core. This wasn’t a mere suggestion; it was a command—one that carried the weight of eternity.

And yet, my mind was still wrestling with the blurred edges of my reality. Was I awake? Was I dreaming? The echoes of the music, the charged silence, and the vivid presence before me all felt surreal, like I was teetering on the edge of two worlds. But there was no mistaking the physical feeling of His presence. It pressed upon me, not with heaviness, but with a holy certainty that I couldn’t explain. The atmosphere seemed to hum with life, and though I couldn’t see Him, I knew—beyond any doubt—that He was there.

Confusion mingled with awe as I tried to comprehend what was happening. My heart raced, and my mind grasped for understanding, but everything in me knew that “Come” wasn’t just a word. It was a calling. A turning point. And as I sat there, suspended between the unknown and the undeniable, I realized this was a moment that demanded a response.

Something deep stirred within me—a pull so powerful I couldn’t resist it. This wasn’t driven by logic or willpower. It felt as though my very being was being drawn upward, compelled by a force far greater than myself, one I couldn’t fully understand.

I sat up in bed, the air around me charged with an almost electric anticipation. The atmosphere was alive, infused with purpose, as if the unseen world had broken through into mine. Added to this pull was an overwhelming sense of excitement—joy, even. This wasn’t just a command; it was an invitation to meet with God Himself. Somehow, deep in my spirit, I knew He was waiting for me, ready to converse in a way I had never experienced before.

What I didn’t yet realize was that this moment was more than a one-time encounter. These mornings would become a sacred classroom for my spirit, where He would teach me about His character, His purposes, and the depths of true obedience. But for now, all I could do was follow the pull that consumed me—a force so undeniable it echoed the words Jesus spoke to His disciples: 'Come, follow me.' It wasn’t just an urging; it was a calling, one that bypassed my fears and doubts and went straight to the core of who I was. I felt as though the same voice that once called fishermen to leave their nets behind was now beckoning me to rise, to step into something far greater than myself.

With trembling hands and a racing heart, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. My wife lay peacefully asleep beside me, her breath steady and undisturbed by the shift unfolding in me. I paused for a moment, perplexed. She often stirred at the slightest movement, yet tonight, amidst all this inner drama, she remained deeply asleep. It was as though she, too, was wrapped in the stillness of the moment, untouched by the stirring that had awakened me. Quietly, I walked out of the bedroom. As I passed her bedside clock, the numbers glowed softly in the dark: 4:00 AM. Exactly.

Chapter 5: The First Step

On my way out of the bedroom, I grabbed my housecoat and carefully opened the door, closing it gently behind me. The moment I stepped into the hallway, the change was immediate. The warmth and sacred atmosphere of the bedroom, where Jesus’ presence had felt so near, gave way to a stillness that was cooler, quieter, and somehow distant.

The air outside the room was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the holy embrace I had just left. I pulled the housecoat tighter around me, grateful for its warmth. Grabbing my clothes would have risked making too much noise and waking my wife, who was usually a light sleeper. Even now, I was surprised she hadn’t stirred, considering the profound shift I had just experienced. But here, in the silence of the hallway, everything felt ordinary again—at least outwardly. Inside, even as I felt the draw, a quiet war raged within me. What would I lose by answering this call? The safety of familiarity? The fragile comfort of staying in control? I had built my life around careful walls, constructed to keep out pain and rejection, but I knew instinctively that those walls would not survive the journey I was being asked to take.

At the same time, another question tugged at me: What might I gain? The possibility of freedom, of finally breaking through the hollow routines and restless longing that had defined my days. The hope of stepping into a life I could only glimpse in moments like this—a life alive with meaning, purpose, and connection to something far greater than myself.

As I made my way downstairs to the basement rec room, the weight of the unknown pressed heavily on me. What if I wasn’t enough? What if the call required more than I had to give? The fear whispered insidiously, reminding me of past failures, past wounds, as though they were proof that I should stay where I was, safe and unseen.

And yet, the pull wouldn’t let me go. It wasn’t harsh or demanding; it was steady, certain, filled with a quiet authority that left no room for doubt. I could almost hear the words forming in the silence: Leave the nets behind. Each step I took down the stairs felt like a surrender, a quiet acknowledgment that responding to this call would cost me everything I thought I needed to hold onto. Yet, with every step, I felt the promise of something greater—something I couldn’t yet name but knew in my soul was worth any price.

My heart pounded as the weight of the moment settled over me, the tension between fear and hope tightening with every breath. I wasn’t sure what lay ahead, but deep down, I knew I had already made my choice. The pull consumed me, drawing me toward the light beyond the walls I had built, and all I could do was rise and follow.

Chapter 6: A Sacred Ground

As I entered the rec room, the faint glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting soft, shifting shadows that danced along the walls. The familiar space seemed almost unrecognizable in the stillness of the early morning, as though the air itself was holding its breath, waiting. The quiet was tangible, wrapping around me like a blanket, yet it carried a weight—a sense of expectation I couldn’t quite explain. My eyes fell on the armchair immediately, its worn silhouette bathed in the dim light, and I knew, without hesitation, that this was where I needed to be. This wasn’t just a chair; it was sacred ground. I thought of the times I had sat here, overwhelmed by the weight of life, only to find the hand of God waiting to lift me up. And now, as I settled into its familiar embrace, I couldn’t help but feel that same assurance—this was where transformation began.

The chair stood out, a relic of the 1980s, upholstered in a gold and brown floral fabric that had softened with decades of use. Its faded colors and worn patterns carried a comforting familiarity, like the embrace of an old friend—albeit an old friend with questionable taste in decor. But this chair was more than just a seat—it was sacred to me. It was the same chair I had sat in years ago, the very place where God had first called me to tithe my time to Him. I ran my hand over the worn armrest and couldn’t help but think: if chairs could talk, this one would probably ask for some rest of its own. The memory of that moment rushed back now, vivid and poignant.

Seriously?! Is this another calling to tithe my time?"

The thought burst into my mind, not as a quiet reflection, but as a startled exclamation. It wasn’t just a question—it carried the weight of disbelief and recognition, as if I knew deep down that the answer was already clear, even if I wasn’t quite ready to face it.

This was the same chair where, long ago, I had cradled my 15-month-old son as he lay sick, his small body frail and feverish. I remembered sitting here, desperate and helpless, until the hand of God stepped in and touched him with an immediate healing that left me speechless. That moment had seared itself into my memory, the chair forever marked by the presence of that miracle.

Chapter 7: Gratitude and Presence

Spotting my Bible on the nearby bookshelf, I reached for it, its worn leather cool beneath my fingers. As I held it, memories surfaced—of my first teaching, of the scriptures coming alive not just for me but for those I prayed with. Those pages had carried me through moments of triumph and trial, their frayed edges bearing the evidence of a well-traveled journey with God.

Sitting in the chair, the creak beneath me felt like a protest. "If chairs could talk," I thought wryly, "this one would probably remind me it's earned an early retirement." Yet, its familiar embrace carried me back to moments of faithfulness, both His and mine.

I held the book in my hands, unsure of what to expect. My thoughts were scattered, my mind foggy from the early hour and the emotional weight of the morning. I didn’t have a plan or a script. I only knew that I had been drawn here for a reason. Sitting in the stillness, I felt a gentle nudge in my spirit—a quiet invitation to begin with gratitude.

My mind wandered again, as I held the Bible in my lap, its weight grounding me as my thoughts drifted. Memories of past failures stirred uneasily, whispering fears of inadequacy, yet they were met with the steady pulse of His presence. The doubts that once gripped me felt strangely distant, as though His nearness had softened their edges.

Slowly, I flipped through the pages, their highlights and scribbled notes drawing me back to moments of clarity and courage. Each verse seemed to echo the same truth: He had always been with me, even in the moments I felt most unworthy.

My thoughts then drifted to a moment that had left its indelible mark on both me and my Bible: my first public teaching. The memory cascaded into the evening that followed, an evening that forever changed my life and the lives of those I prayed with. It was a night where the words on those pages came alive, their power felt not just in the teaching but in the transformations that unfolded before me. That Bible, worn and weathered, held more than words—it held the echoes of moments when faith became action, and action became transformation.

The music that had woken me still lingered in my spirit, a melody too sacred to fade. I gripped my Bible tighter, flipping through its pages as if searching for its source. "God, if this is the warm-up," I thought, "You’d better be ready for some off-key prayers. It’s early.

It wasn’t just the words on the page—it was the memories they carried, the prayers they had anchored, and the life they had breathed into my journey.

A small spark of thankfulness began to flicker within me, faint and tentative at first, but it grew brighter with each word of gratitude I poured out to God. My mind finally started to focus and I thanked Him for calling me, for meeting me, and for drawing me close in a way that felt both personal and holy.

That spark soon morphed into a wave of gratitude, welling up inside me, small at first, then building until it threatened to overwhelm me. I was thankful—deeply thankful—for everything this moment represented. For the beauty of the music that had stirred my soul and the single word, “Come,” spoken with such clarity and authority. For the invitation to draw near, to meet with the God of the universe, and for the assurance that He had called me personally, by name.

I felt gratitude for His presence, so tangible and real, as if the very air around me was infused with His nearness. It wasn’t just a fleeting feeling—it was a profound awareness, like a warm embrace wrapping around my soul, soothing the edges of my doubts and fears. The peace that settled over me was unlike anything I had known before, not the fragile kind that circumstances could disrupt, but a deep, steady current flowing straight from Him.

As I reflected on the past, vivid memories began to surface—the moments of His faithfulness woven like golden threads through my life. I saw the times He had carried me when I couldn’t take another step, the times He had whispered encouragement when I felt lost, and the times He had stayed silent, letting me learn to trust Him in the quiet. Even the trials I had endured, though painful at the time, now felt like stepping stones, each one preparing me for this very moment.

Above all, I was thankful for Him—for the Father who saw me in my brokenness and loved me still, who called me by name when I felt unseen, and who was now inviting me into something deeper than I had ever imagined. This wasn’t just about the morning; it was about His relentless love, unyielding and fierce in its pursuit of my heart. It was about His unshakable faithfulness that never wavered, even when I did. And it was about His unwavering desire to walk with me, to teach me, and to transform me into who He created me to be.

And then, something remarkable happened. His presence filled the room—not with drama, fanfare, or an overwhelming display of power, but with a quiet, unmistakable certainty. It was subtle yet profound, like the gentle rise of dawn, bathing everything in its light without a single word spoken.

There were no visions to behold or thunderous voices to hear, just a profound peace that settled over me, wrapping me in warmth and comfort like a soft blanket on a cold morning. The air felt alive, charged with holiness, as though heaven itself had bent low to meet me in this ordinary moment.

It wasn’t only what I felt—it was what I knew. Deep within, I sensed God drawing near, not as a distant deity but as the loving Father who had awakened me with music and now stayed close, speaking not with words but with His presence.

Scripture verses began to flow gently through my mind, unbidden yet perfectly timed, planting seeds of truth and reassurance that took root deep within my spirit. Verses about His abounding love washed over me, reminding me of His unchanging devotion: “The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in His love He will no longer rebuke you but will rejoice over you with singing” (Zephaniah 3:17).

Other verses followed, calling me to remember my identity as His child: “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are” (1 John 3:1). The truth of those words settled into my heart like a steady anchor, grounding me in the reality of who I was to Him—not just a follower or a servant, but a son deeply loved and treasured.

With each verse came a peace so deep, so unshakable, that I could do nothing but rest in it. His love, His calling, His assurance of my place in His family—it all wrapped around me, quieting every fear and doubt. In that moment, the scriptures were not just things I had read—they were alive, resonating within me, carrying His promise that I was His, and He was mine.

It was a moment not just of awareness, but of communion. My Father was here, meeting me, holding me, and inviting me to step into something far greater than myself. And as I sat in that sacred stillness, I knew that whatever the future held, He was with me, and that was enough.

In that moment, I understood something profound: God had woken me up for this. My Father wanted me here, in these quiet hours before the world stirred, to meet with Him, to sit in His presence, and to listen. It wasn’t about elaborate prayers or carefully chosen words; it was about simply being with Him, opening my heart to His voice, and responding to His invitation.

This was about more than a single morning; it was about training my ears to hear His voice. My Father wasn’t rushing me or demanding perfection. He was inviting me to be still, to practice the discipline of listening, and to let His truths take root in my heart. This was the start of something transformative—a journey of learning to tune out the noise of the world and tune in to the quiet, steady voice of my Father.

This was the first step in a journey I couldn’t have imagined. And as I sat there, bathed in His peace, I realized I wasn’t just waking up to the morning—I was waking up to Him.

Chapter 8: The Commitment

That morning, as I lingered in His presence, I felt something stirring deep within—a seed being planted in a place far below the surface of my thoughts. This wasn’t merely an idea or a passing notion; it was something deeper, an intuition that bypassed the chatter of my mind and resonated in the core of my being. My Father’s voice didn’t come as audible words or even as conscious thoughts—it was more profound, a knowing that welled up from within, as though my spirit was being guided by something far greater than my own understanding.

He was asking me to do more than rise early for prayer on occasion. He was calling me to tithe my time again—to give Him the first fruits of my day, every day. This call wasn’t loud or forceful. It didn’t need to be. It carried a quiet authority, a certainty that left no room for doubt, gently drawing me closer.

The knowing began to unfold further, guided by His presence. Memories surfaced—not random recollections, but moments of His faithfulness, as if He was gently showing me the path we had walked together.

I remembered the first time He had called me to tithe my time, years ago. I had wrestled deeply then, my mind overwhelmed with doubts and fears: Could I truly commit? What would it cost me? What if I failed?

The failures of my past had left scars—etched deeply by my inability to do as I was instructed. I hadn’t failed because of a lack of clarity in what was asked of me, but because I was overcome with fear. Fear of what others might think, fear of stepping out of the familiar, fear of failing in ways others could see. Those fears had paralyzed me, holding me back from obedience and leaving behind wounds I carried silently.

But now, in this sacred stillness, those wounds felt different. They no longer held pain but had become reminders of His faithfulness, etched deeply into my story. It wasn’t my mind that brought this realization—it was Him, guiding me, showing me how He had been there through every trial, every question, and every step forward.

This time was different. The doubts that had once held me captive were gone. The fears that had loomed so large now seemed weightless, as though His presence had dissolved them before I could even name them. In their place was a deep peace, not just felt but known, an unshakable assurance that my Father had brought me to this moment for a purpose.

This wasn’t about proving anything, to myself or to Him. It wasn’t about striving or performing. It was about surrender. It was about offering Him my time as an act of love, devotion, and trust. The unknown didn’t matter. The future didn’t matter. What mattered was Him, here and now, inviting me to draw closer and abide with Him.

As I sat in that stillness, my heart softened. This wasn’t an obligation—it was an invitation. An invitation to lean into the quiet depths where His voice wasn’t heard but known, where His presence didn’t just surround me but filled me. It was a moment of communion that couldn’t be explained, only experienced—a deep resonance that connected me to Him in a way words could never capture.

God was calling. But was I ready to say yes?

As the stillness wrapped around me, I realized this wasn’t a new question—it was the same question He’d asked before, the same invitation to trust Him fully. To understand the weight of this call, I’d have to go back to where it all began. Only then would I grasp the depth of what He was asking of me now.

Before I could fully embrace this call, I had to be prepared. Looking back, I see now how every experience—every triumph, every failure—had led me to this moment. To understand the significance of this second call, I need to take you back to where my journey with my Father first began.

Chapter 9: Reflection and Invitation

For me, it started with a single word: “Come.” It wasn’t just an invitation to draw near—it was a summons to surrender, to trust, and to step into the unknown. It was the beginning of a journey that would challenge, refine, and ultimately transform me. Along the way, I discovered not only the depth of God’s love but also the weight of His call—a call that often comes with a cross to bear but always leads to a deeper, richer life in Him.

As you close this chapter and look ahead, I invite you to pause. What is the “more” you’ve been longing for? What are the walls you’ve built, the fears you’ve clung to, or the nets you’ve been unwilling to leave behind? And what might happen if you, too, said yes—not halfway, not hesitantly, but fully and completely?

The call to “come” isn’t reserved for the extraordinary or the perfect, because I was far from perfect. It’s for the weary, the searching, the broken, and the willing. It’s a call to step beyond what you know, to lay down what holds you back, and to walk into the unknown with the One who knows you fully and loves you completely.

I didn’t answer the call because I had it all together—I answered it because I didn’t. I was tired, flawed, and uncertain, but God didn’t ask for perfection. He asked for surrender. And that’s what I invite you to consider as you continue this journey: not what you can offer, but what He offers you.

The call is waiting—not for the fearless or the flawless, but for the willing. Will you lay down your nets, your fears, and your excuses to step into the life He’s calling you to? The One who knows your heart and your story is waiting for you to say yes.

This book is the story of what happened when I said yes—and how those early mornings with God completely transformed me. Through those quiet hours, He revealed lessons that reshaped my understanding of faith, obedience, and His unfathomable love. But it wasn’t just about growth—it was about purification. Each lesson exposed parts of my sinful nature that needed to be burned away through the pressure and heat of the baptism of fire - 1 Peter 1:7. These weren’t just truths to learn—they were truths to live, tested and refined through practice. I invite you to join me on this journey as you read on.

What if I told you that everything can change in a moment? That life as you know it—its rhythm, its focus, its purpose—can be completely upended by a single, undeniable call? This is the story of how it happened to me.

I will take you back to 1979, just before my rebirth. It was a time of questions, of searching, of being brought to my knees by events I didn’t yet understand. But then, something extraordinary happened. I was summoned—not once, not twice, but again and again—to give a tenth of my time. Why? To what end? And what could possibly compel me to surrender everything I thought I knew?

This is a story of transformation, of breathtaking moments where God’s hand became undeniably visible in my life, and of battles fought in the shadows of doubt, pride, and despair. You’ll feel the weight of my struggles and the beauty of redemption as I recount how distancing myself from the early morning whispers of my Teacher nearly led me astray—and how, one day, a song pulled me back with the call to “come.”

From that morning, a new journey began—two years of profound closeness to God and a friendship rooted in faith with someone who shared a life-changing scripture, 2 Chronicles 7:14. Together, we sought God with everything we had, weathering storms that would prepare us for separate paths of immense trials and transformation.

If you’ve ever wondered what might happen if you truly let go—if you stepped beyond fear and into faith, dared to trust the One who calls you by name—then this journey is for you. The quiet nudge of His voice saying, 'Come,' isn’t just for me; it’s an invitation for anyone searching for more. So, what happens when you say yes? When you leave everything familiar behind and step into the unknown with nothing but faith? That’s where this story begins—and where yours might, too.