I Am Not a Bum. You Are Not a Loser.

Part 2: Two Voices, One Child

Before I tell you my story, I want to say something important: my story isn’t worse than yours. It isn’t more dramatic or more deserving of sympathy. It’s just mine. And yours is yours. What I’ve learned is that pain doesn’t come in rankings. It doesn’t matter whether the wound came from a father, a mother, a schoolyard, a workplace, or a stranger on the internet. If it broke something in you, it broke something in you. Full stop.

I’m telling you my story for one reason: so that somewhere in it, you might see your own. And so you might believe me when I say that what happened to me doesn’t have to take you as many years as it took me. Many details have been left out. Some that would show both sides of the story. But, I can tell you this. God’s side is much more exciting.

Two Voices

When I was about seven years old, two things were happening at the same time, and I didn’t understand either of them.

The first: I would open the family Bible—it was kept in a locker at the foot of my parents’ bed—and I’d look at the pictures. Noah and the ark. Daniel standing calmly among lions. David, small and brave. Jesus carrying a lamb on His shoulders. Jesus talking to little children. Jesus hanging on a cross. I didn’t fully understand what I was looking at, but something in those pages was reaching out to me. It was as if the Bible were speaking directly to a seven-year-old boy who hadn’t been taught to listen for it. God was introducing Himself.

The second: my father would come home from work, and we’d wrestle on the living room floor. Playful. The way dads do. But then he’d lean in close—so close I could feel his breath tickling the tiny hairs in my ear—and he’d whisper the same words, over and over:

“You’re a bum. Nothing but a bum. You’ll always be a bum.”

Two voices. One telling me I was seen and loved. The other telling me I was nothing. Both planting seeds in the same child.

Looking back, I believe that’s exactly what was happening in the spiritual realm. God was drawing me to Himself through those pages—showing me who He was and, in time, who I was meant to be. And the enemy, recognising the threat that it posed, moved quickly to shut it down. Not with a dramatic confrontation. Just with a whisper. Through my own father’s mouth.

A battle for a child’s mind. And for a very long time, the wrong voice won.

The Long, Slow Fall

I’m not going to walk you through every painful year. You don’t need a catalogue of my mistakes to understand what happened. The short version is this: I believed the lie. And then I lived it out.

Self-destruction wore many faces in my life. Some of them looked obvious from the outside. Others were hidden—quiet, internal collapses that nobody saw. But they all grew from the same root: I didn’t believe I deserved anything good. So whenever something good came along—a relationship, an opportunity, a moment of peace—I found a way to destroy it. Every time. Not because I wanted to, but because the voice in my ear had become the voice in my head, and it told me I wasn’t worthy of it.

I think people who struggle with addiction—alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling, whatever the substance or behaviour—are all really addicted to the same thing: self-destruction. The faces change, but the engine underneath is identical. It’s a person who has been told, one way or another, that they are not worth saving. And eventually they start to agree.

That was me. And the end result, more than once, was attempted suicide. Because when you truly believe you are nothing—not just on a bad day, but in your bones—dying feels like the only logical conclusion.

If you recognise any of this, stay with me. Because it doesn’t end here.

The God Who Doesn’t Give Up

Here’s the thing about God: He is relentless. Even when I was actively destroying everything He put in front of me, He kept putting things in front of me. Good things. Good people. Moments of grace that I didn’t recognise as grace until much later.

Every time, He was trying to show me the Heavenly Father He is. Not the voice that whispered cruelty. Not the authority figure who tore me down. The real Father—the one who gives good and perfect gifts, in whom there is “no variableness, neither shadow of turning” (James 1:17).

Think about that for a moment. No shadow of turning. No dark side. No hidden cruelty. Even one strand of hair can cast a shadow—but not God. There is no angle from which He is anything other than light.

But I couldn’t see it. Not yet. The lie was too loud, too old, and too deeply rooted. And so the good gifts kept coming, and I kept destroying them, and the years kept passing.

When the Bottom Fell Out

Eventually, the bottom fell out. I reached a place so low that there was nowhere left to fall. And in that place, something happened that I didn’t expect.

I came face to face with a gift that God had promised me long ago—during those childhood days when I sat with His Word and His presence. A gift I had completely forgotten about. A person. Someone who, when I looked back on the whole tangled mess of my life, I could see had been woven into God’s plan from the very beginning.

And with that came a revelation that shook me to my core: my life—this life I had spent decades trying to throw away—was a gift that this person had prayed for. God had been working in two lives at once. Not just mine. While I was busy destroying everything He gave me, He was simultaneously preparing someone else, shaping their heart, drawing their prayers toward a person they didn’t yet know. The Bible says, “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps” (Proverbs 16:9). There are no coincidences in God’s world. This wasn’t chance. This was an encounter He had been orchestrating across years, across lives, long before either of us could see it.

It felt miraculous. And it was. But it was also short-lived. Because once again, the enemy came, and that gift was taken from me.

If you know what it’s like to have something precious ripped away—something you know in your soul was meant for you—then you know the kind of grief I’m talking about. It’s a heartsickness that doesn’t have a cure in this world. James was right: every good and perfect gift comes from the Father of lights. And when one is taken, the darkness feels total.

But God wasn’t finished.

Alone, and Blessed

What followed was a year of reflection. Alone. Isolated. And—strangely—blessed. It was as though God had pulled me aside and said, “Sit here with Me for a while. Just us.” No distractions. No noise. Just the quiet work of a Father rebuilding something that had been broken for a very long time.

After that year, I was led to serve in a ministry in a small inner-city neighbourhood. From the outside, it wasn’t much to look at. It was the kind of place that even police officers didn’t like to enter. But to me, it was the most satisfying season of my new life. I was finally doing something that lined up with who I was meant to be, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet.

Little did I know that the deepest breakthrough of my life was about to walk past my front door.

Four Boys and a Police Officer

One day, a police officer knocked on my door. He’d heard about the good work the ministry was doing in the neighbourhood, and he wanted to know more. We stood there talking.

While we talked, four young boys—all younger than twelve—walked past, saying hello, on their way to a space I’d set aside for them on the property behind my apartment. Just kids. Kids I knew.

The officer watched them go, then turned to me and began to tear them down. He told me how many times they’d been arrested. How they stole for their father. How they’d never amount to anything. What, he wanted to know, would I even want to do with kids like that?

And in that moment, something happened that I can only describe as God pulling back a curtain.

It was as if I stepped outside of myself and saw the scene from the outside. A man in authority, dismissing children he didn’t really know or understand. Declaring their future was already decided. Writing them off. And suddenly I wasn’t hearing a police officer anymore. I was hearing my father. “You’re a bum. You’ll never amount to anything. Not like the other kids.”

But this time, I wasn’t the child on the floor. I was the adult at the door. And I could see the lie for what it was.

I told that officer off. He didn’t know anything about those boys. He didn’t know their hearts, their lives, or the circumstances they had no choice but to be born into. He didn’t get to decide their future.

Then I excused myself, went inside, and wept.

Something broke in me that day. Not the way things had broken before—not another collapse, another failure. This was different. This was the sound of a chain snapping. The lie my father had planted in a seven-year-old boy’s ear, the lie that had driven decades of self-destruction, the lie that told me I was nothing and never would be—it broke.

Because in defending those boys, I was defending myself. For the first time in my life, I could see the lie from the outside. And from the outside, it was so obviously, heartbreakingly wrong.

I Know Who I Am

I have been working out that change ever since. It didn’t all happen in a single afternoon—healing rarely does. But the chain broke that day, and it has stayed broken.

I know who I am in Christ. Nothing can raise itself against me ever again. Not the memory of my father’s words. Not the years of destruction. Not the enemy’s whispers. This is my testimony, as it is written in the book of Revelation: they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony (Revelation 12:11). And I overcome.

I can’t ask my father why he said those words. That opportunity is lost. If I could, I think he probably would have said he doesn’t know. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the voice that used his mouth didn’t need his permission.

And I live daily with a deep, painful sorrow that the gift was taken from me. That heartsickness hasn’t gone away, and I’m not sure it will on this side of eternity. I hold onto the hope that one day there will be a reconciliation—because God is in the business of restoration. But even in the waiting, I am not who I was. The lie no longer defines me.

 

And You?

I’m not telling you my story so you’d feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because somewhere in the mess of it, you might see your own reflection. Different details, different faces, same war.

And I need you to hear this: you don’t have to wait as long as I did.

It took me decades to reach my breakthrough. Decades of believing a lie that could have been broken much sooner if someone had shown me the truth. I don’t want that for you. That’s why I’m writing this. That’s why the next post exists.

In Post 3, I’m going to turn from my story to yours. I’m going to show you what God says about you—not what the enemy has whispered, not what the bully has shouted, not what the voice in your head keeps repeating. What God says. And it’s going to change the way you see yourself.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: the Beatitudes aren’t just poetry. They’re a portrait. And when I read them now, I see you.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

That’s not weakness. That’s qualification. And there’s more to come.

Stay with me. Your breakthrough doesn’t have to be decades away. It might be closer than you think.

If you or someone you know is in crisis right now, please reach out. You are not alone.

New Zealand: Lifeline 0800 543 354 | Need to Talk? Free call or text 1737

USA: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 988 | Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

UK: Samaritans 116 123 | Australia: Lifeline 13 11 14

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