One of the most unsettling stories in the Bible comes from 2 Kings 6. I first heard it as a teenager when our pastor spent nearly a year preaching through 1 and 2 Kings. Normally, my mind would wander during Sunday services, but this story caught my attention due to its scandalous and disturbing nature.

Mark 14:7 says:  

“For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me.”

This scripture is set within a story of worship. A woman anointed Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume, which prompted others to question if her actions were wasteful. Wouldn’t it have been better to sell the perfume and give the money to the poor? Jesus’ response was clear—there would always be opportunities to serve the poor, but His physical presence with them was temporary.  

John 7:37 reads, "On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, 'If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.'"

I remember reading this verse and scribbling something down in my journal with frustration: “Why is this not true for me?" I felt far from God, like He had disappeared from my life. My prayers felt hollow, like they were bouncing off the ceiling. "I am thirsty! Where are You?" I cried out, hoping for some sort of answer, but nothing seemed to change.

One of the most controversial aspects of Catholicism for many Protestants is the sacrament of confession. When friends found out I had become Catholic, many said, “I don’t need to go to a priest because I can talk straight to Jesus about my sin.” While it’s true that Christ is our mediator to the Father, I believe that confession within the Church holds a special significance.

 In the summer of 2007, I found myself in the middle of the desert, maintaining the berm around a small outpost near the Iraq border. It was just me and another soldier working together when we saw the wreckage of a Humvee that had been hit by an IED being pulled onto the post. We walked over and stood silently beside it, unable to find any words for what felt like an eternity. The blood of soldiers still stained what was left of the seats. Someone’s sons and daughters had lost their lives, thousands of miles away from home. They had paid the ultimate cost of war.

I grew up in a small Southern town, the kind of place where the population was overwhelmingly white and deeply conservative. This wasn’t always the case—once, it was a Democratic stronghold. But like many Southern towns, the political landscape shifted in the 80s and 90s when the Republican Party won over the evangelical vote. Issues of morality, such as abortion and the sanctity of marriage, began to take precedence over economic concerns.

There are two men in my life whom I would go to war with—literally. I served in the Iraqi war with one of them. These are the kind of friends who would drop everything and come to my aid if I called in the middle of the night. One of these men is my twin brother, Kyle, and the other is my best friend, Tylor Jones.

In my first blog, I mentioned that I once held Calvinistic views on salvation. Calvinism is based on the teachings of John Calvin, a theologian who had a significant impact during the Protestant Reformation. While Calvinism encompasses a broader theological system, most people identify as Calvinists if they adhere to five core beliefs about salvation: total depravity, unconditional election, irresistible grace, limited atonement, and the perseverance of the saints. My journey to this theological framework was somewhat unconventional.

Although most of my former Christian friends never said it outright, their actions spoke loudly—they believed I was outside the state of grace. They were mostly Reformed Calvinists, and while they would affirm that I was forgiven at conversion—my past, present, and future sins covered by Christ’s righteousness through faith alone—the way they treated me told a different story. Despite my repentance, I was treated like a leper.