"Real People, Real Choices"

---

When all seems right — when life feels calm, peaceful, and steady — it’s easy to let your mind drift back to the past. Old choices. Wrong turns. Regrets. The kind of thoughts that remind you of everything you didn’t accomplish, everything you wish you could go back and do differently.

I’ve lived long enough to carry plenty of those.

But here’s what amazes me: even with all my flaws, all my bad decisions, and all the things I can’t undo, God gave me peace. Not only peace, but someone new in my life — someone beautiful inside and out, someone whose story isn’t the same as mine, but who walked into my life in a way that I believe only God could have arranged.

We help each other. She helps me in ways she may never fully realize. And maybe I help her too.

The truth is, I’m still rough around the edges. I still wrestle with worry about the future — especially being 68, not where I thought I’d be financially, and limited by age and injuries. Sometimes I get lost in those thoughts, stuck on what I can’t do anymore.

But then I remember: God didn’t owe me peace, or companionship, or another chance to grow closer to Him. He gave them anyway. Grace doesn’t make sense, but it’s real.

I may not have accomplished all I dreamed. I may not have the wealth the world says I should. But I have something greater — God’s presence, His mercy, His love, and the blessing of someone to walk beside me.

That’s why I started this blog. Writing here brings me closer to Him. It keeps me focused, instead of lost in the worries of what I can’t change.

Life is still simple. My flaws are still there. My worries still creep in. But overall, I see the truth: I’ve been given something I don’t deserve.

Peace. Love. Grace.

And that’s more than enough.

I was 21 when my father died, and that moment changed the entire course of my life.

He was a hardworking man with more than one role. By day, he was a cop. On weekends, he was an entertainer — a music agent who booked bands for weddings, clubs, and all kinds of events. He wasn’t home a lot, always working, always on the go. But when he was home, he gave his all. He did the food shopping, cooked meals, took care of the house. He carried himself like a man who never stopped moving, and even though he had his flaws like anyone else, he was steady. Dependable.

Losing him at that age cut deep. I thought I was grown, but truthfully, I wasn’t ready. His absence left a hole I didn’t know how to fill. Grief didn’t make me softer — it hardened me. I turned the pain into anger, and that anger became the fuel that pushed me deeper into the streets.

My mom did the best she could after he was gone. She was a strong woman, a housewife who loved to cook, but she struggled with diabetes and her own health issues. She tried to keep things together, but I could see how much it weighed on her. A few years later, when she passed too, it felt like life had taken both pillars out from under me.

First my father, then my mother — two of the biggest parts of my world, gone before I had a chance to fully appreciate what they gave me.

With both of them gone, I felt like a boat cut loose, drifting without direction. There was no anchor, no steady voice to pull me back when I started to go too far. So I kept going, chasing strength in all the wrong places. Clubs. Hustles. Wiseguys. Gambling. Money. Respect. Anything to drown out the grief I didn’t know how to face.

Looking back now, I can see how much those losses shaped me. They didn’t just hurt in the moment — they carved a path I would walk for years. A path of anger, of recklessness, of trying to be strong when inside I was broken.

But here’s the thing: even when I was lost in grief and anger, God never left me. He was still there, even when I didn’t want Him, even when I wasn’t listening. Patient. Watching. Waiting.

I didn’t know it then, but losing my parents wasn’t the end of my story. It was the beginning of a long, hard journey that would one day lead me back to Him.

After my father died at 21, and then my mother several years later, something in me hardened. I didn’t have much direction, and with both of them gone, I drifted deeper into the world that was right in front of me — the streets.

At first, it was just hanging around. Poker games, social clubs, late nights. But little by little, it became more. I started learning the ropes from the guys who seemed to have it all together — the wiseguys, the hustlers, the ones who looked like they controlled everything around them. To me, they carried a kind of power. People respected them, or at least feared them. Money seemed to flow through their hands. They had the cars, the clothes, the attention. And as a young man still carrying anger and grief, that life looked like the answer.

So I dove in. I started running clubs, hosting games, getting my own piece of the action. Nights bled into mornings. The sound of cards shuffling, dice hitting tables, cash being counted — it all became normal. I didn’t see it as wrong at the time; it was survival. It was about proving myself, about showing I could stand on my own without anyone’s help.

There were moments it felt good. The rush of a crowded club. The feeling of walking into a room and knowing people looked at you differently because of what you ran. The quick money. The women. The sense of being somebody when inside I still felt like a broken kid.

But underneath, it was all empty. The more I got, the more I wanted. And the more I wanted, the more restless I became. That’s how it works out there — you’re never satisfied, because nothing you grab onto really lasts.

I also started to see the cracks. Friends turning on each other. Deals that weren’t so clean. People getting jealous when you did well. Guys who looked like they were in control one week, and the next week they were broke, hiding, or worse.

Still, I kept pushing. I thought if I went harder, made more, pulled in bigger crowds, I’d finally feel that peace I was chasing. But the truth is, the streets don’t give peace. They give you moments of excitement, then leave you more restless than before.

Looking back now, I can see how dangerous it really was. At the time, I didn’t think about tomorrow. I just thought about the next night, the next game, the next score. But living like that, you don’t realize how fast tomorrow catches up.

Running the streets filled a void for a while, but it also trapped me. It wasn’t freedom. It was another kind of chain.

And eventually, I had to face the truth: you can only run so long before something — or Someone — catches up to you.

The street life looks exciting on the outside, but it always comes with a cost. At first, it felt like I was building something — running games, pulling crowds, making money. But over time, the cracks started to show.

Betrayals came first. Friends who weren’t really friends. People smiling in your face one day and cutting you down the next. Money and power make people greedy, and greed doesn’t care about loyalty. I saw it happen again and again, and before long, it happened to me.

Then came the fights. Not just arguments, but real fights — over territory, over money, over respect. Some of those nights, I wondered if I’d even make it home. Living like that, you sleep with one eye open, always watching your back, always wondering who’s coming next. That kind of paranoia eats at you.

There were also close calls with the law. A few arrests. Nights in a cell. I never got prison time, but I saw how close I was to it. Too close. I watched guys I knew get locked up for years. Some never came back the same. Some never came back at all.

One night, after everything went sideways, I sat alone and thought about my life. The noise had finally died down, and for once, I couldn’t distract myself with the next hustle. I looked at the choices I’d made, the bridges I’d burned, the people I’d hurt, and I felt the weight of it all.

That was my breaking point.

For the first time, I admitted to myself that the streets had never given me what I was looking for. They gave me moments of power, moments of respect, but never peace. And peace was what I craved most.

Looking back now, I can see what I couldn’t see then: even in that breaking point, I wasn’t alone. Jesus was there.

I didn’t know it at the time, but He was using the betrayals, the paranoia, the close calls to wake me up. To show me that the path I was on led nowhere but destruction. I thought I was running my own life, but really, I was running from Him.

And yet, He never stopped chasing me.

That night, in the silence after the chaos, I didn’t pray a fancy prayer. I didn’t even know what to say. But deep down, something shifted. I realized that if there was any hope for me, it wouldn’t come from the streets. It would come from God.

The breaking point wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of Him breaking through.

After years of chasing money, respect, and distractions, I finally came to the point where I couldn’t run anymore. The streets had taken their toll. I was tired. Tired of the betrayals. Tired of the paranoia. Tired of waking up every day feeling like I was one wrong step away from losing everything.

It wasn’t one big moment that changed me — it was a thousand small ones. Nights sitting alone after the noise died down. Days when I watched people I knew get locked up or buried. Times when I realized the life I thought made me strong was really hollowing me out.

Slowly, God began to get my attention.

It wasn’t through a preacher or a church service. It was in the quiet. In those moments when I couldn’t distract myself anymore. In the questions I tried to bury but couldn’t escape: “Is this really it? Is this all there is? What happens when it’s over?”

Somewhere in that searching, I began to sense something I hadn’t felt before — peace. Not from the money or the action, but from God Himself. At first, it was just a whisper, like He was telling me, “You don’t have to live this way anymore.”

I resisted. I thought I was too far gone. I thought God wouldn’t want anything to do with someone like me. But the more I ran, the more He pursued. And little by little, I started to see the truth: Jesus hadn’t left me, even when I had left Him.

Redemption didn’t come all at once. I still had flaws, still had battles, still had rough edges. But something inside me was changing. For the first time, I wanted more than just survival. I wanted forgiveness. I wanted freedom.

And I found it in Him.

It wasn’t religion that saved me. It wasn’t surface faith. It was realizing that Jesus had been there through it all — the losses, the bad choices, the betrayals, the breaking point — and He was still offering me grace I didn’t deserve.

I didn’t earn redemption. I couldn’t. It was a gift. And when I finally accepted it, the weight I’d been carrying for years began to lift.

Life didn’t become perfect. I didn’t become perfect. But I found something I had never had before: peace. Real peace. The kind that doesn’t come from the streets, or money, or respect, but from knowing I was forgiven, loved, and given another chance.

That’s what redemption looks like. Not a clean slate because I did better, but a new life because He did it all.

I’m 68 now. If you had told me years ago that I’d be living the life I have today — simple, quiet, with peace in my heart — I wouldn’t have believed you. Back then, I was too busy running, too restless to imagine slowing down, too hardened to think peace was even possible.

But here I am.

Life isn’t perfect. My body carries injuries, age has slowed me down, and financially I’m not where I thought I’d be at this stage. That bothers me sometimes — more than I’d like to admit. I catch myself thinking about the choices I made, the paths I took, the years I wasted. And if I’m not careful, those thoughts pull me down.

But then I stop and remember: God gave me more than I ever deserved.

He gave me peace. A peace the world never gave me, and the streets could never offer. He gave me companionship — a beautiful woman in my life, inside and out. Someone who walks with me, cares for me, and helps me in ways I never even knew I needed.

He gave me another chance.

When I look back, I see a trail of mistakes, regrets, and brokenness. But when God looks at me, He sees something different. He sees forgiveness. He sees a child He never gave up on. He sees a life that He redeemed, even when I thought it was too late.

That’s grace.

I still have flaws. I still worry about the future sometimes. I still wrestle with thoughts of not having “accomplished” much in life by the world’s standards. But then I remember — what matters isn’t the world’s standards. It’s God’s.

And in His eyes, I am not a failure. I am His.

The blog I started is part of that journey. Writing these stories, sharing the truth, it keeps me close to Him. It reminds me of where I’ve been, but more importantly, where He’s brought me. If even one person reads and finds hope, then every word is worth it.

At 68, I live a simple life. And yes, sometimes the worries creep in. But overall, I can say with certainty: I am blessed.

Not because I earned it. Not because I did everything right. But because Jesus found me when I was lost, and He never let me go.

That’s today’s grace. And that’s more than enough.