I’ve lived long enough now to see something that troubles me.
I’ve met a lot of Christians in my lifetime. Real ones. People who love God. People who pray. People who read their Bibles. People who would tell you without hesitation that Jesus Christ is their Savior.
And I believe them.
But I’ve also noticed something else.
Some of them are angry.
Not passionate. Not bold. Angry.
You can hear it in their voice. You can see it in their posts. You can feel it when they talk about the world, about sinners, about other believers who don’t line up exactly the way they think they should.
And I’ve asked myself for years — why?
Because I don’t think most of them started that way.
I think something happened.
For me, something did.
My first wife, Ana — my high school sweetheart — and I lost our first child. Three days after she was born, she died in our arms.
Three days.
I buried my daughter, Meagan.
There are moments in life that divide time. Before and after. That was one of them.
The doctor had already told me something was wrong. Anna had been put under for an emergency cesarean. She didn’t know what had happened.
I did.
And I had to walk into that room and hold myself together.
I can still see her face. Brown eyes. That smile.
“Did you see her?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s beautiful.”
And then I had to tell her something was wrong.
I watched the light drain from her.
That moment never leaves you.
That night, after we buried Megan, I went outside and looked up at the sky. I wasn’t praying. I was furious.
“What did we do?”
We got married. We loved each other. We were trying to do life right.
“If you are God,” I said, “at least have the decency to show me something.”
And right after I said it, I saw a shooting star.
Maybe a coincidence.
But in that moment, it was enough to keep me from walking away completely.
The anger didn’t disappear. I spiraled. Drugs. Alcohol. Reckless choices. I didn’t ask for help. I buried everything.
Years passed. I tried again. I became a father again. I tried to be better.
But life shattered again.
I walked into an apartment once, hopeful for reconciliation, only to discover betrayal. I drove away broken, crying harder than I thought a grown man could cry.
And somewhere on that highway, I said, “Lord, I can’t do this again. Take this pain from me. Make me strong.”
That wasn’t anger.
That was surrender.
And there’s a difference.
Years later, COVID came. Neuropathy came. Chronic pain came. Five years of waking up and wondering how bad it would hurt to stand.
Another chance to become bitter.
But I didn’t.
Somewhere between burying my daughter and crying out on that highway, God had shaped something in me.
Not toughness.
Trust.
I have two grandsons now. I have a roof over my head that God made possible. New floors. Fresh paint. A travel van to move, to serve, to share.
Is life perfect? No.
Do I understand everything? Still no.
But I know this.
God didn’t waste my pain.
He didn’t erase it. He didn’t pretend it didn’t happen. But He didn’t waste it.
And that’s what I want to say to the angry Christian.
I understand you.
But don’t let pain turn you into someone Jesus doesn’t recognize.
You can question God without abandoning Him.
You can wrestle without walking away.
You can be honest without becoming bitter.
I’ve yelled at Him.
And He stayed.
So if you’re angry, say it. If you’re hurting, admit it.
But stay.
Stay long enough to see what He builds from the ashes.
Because sometimes the angry Christian isn’t faithless.
He’s just wounded.
And wounds can heal.
I’m living proof.
A Tribute to My Son
Before I close this story, there’s one more person I need to talk about.
My son, Robbie.
Robbie came into this world not long after Megan left it. At a time when my life was spinning out of control, when I was burying my pain with drugs, alcohol, and choices I wish I could take back, there was this little boy who somehow still looked at me like I was his hero.
He became my little buddy.
I wish I could say I was always the father he deserved during those early years. The truth is, I was broken and trying to survive my own storms. But Robbie… Robbie kept showing up. He kept loving me even when I didn’t always know how to love life back.
Years passed, and today, when I look at him, I see something that fills me with a quiet kind of pride.
He’s married now. He works hard. He supports his family. He’s built a life that stands strong on its own two feet. And he’s raising two incredible girls — my granddaughters.
One of them is athletic and full of energy, the kind of kid who never seems to slow down. The other is brilliant, thoughtful, musical, and already chasing big dreams in college. When I look at them, I see the future unfolding in ways I never could have imagined during my darkest days.
And now there’s even a beautiful grandson in the picture, too.
Sometimes I sit back and think about how life works.
There was a time when I thought everything was lost… when I believed the broken pieces of my life would never come back together again.
But when I look at Robbie and the family he’s built, I see something different.
I see proof that God can take the mess of a man’s life and still write something good from it.
So this part of the story is for you, son.
I may have stumbled through some of the early chapters of fatherhood, but watching the man you’ve become reminds me that God’s grace can cover a lot of ground.
And I’m proud of you.
More than you probably know.
America’s Political Crisis