I think I owe you, at the very least, the story of how I came to faith—so I’ll use this entry to share exactly that.
First thing to know: my dad is a pastor. Yep. Textbook cliché. I was basically born into Christianity. Honestly, there’s a strong chance there was a Bible in the labour room. A smaller, but still concerning chance, that there were two. (Side note: about 86.543% of statistics like this are made up on the spot.)
I grew up in a home where the gospel wasn’t just around—it was the atmosphere. We had morning devotions every single day, whether school was in session or not, and nightly devotions more often than not. Tuesdays were for Bible study, Fridays for prayer meetings, and Sundays for the full church experience. We did this for years. It wasn’t a phase; it was the schedule.
And I wasn’t just going through the motions—I was involved. I joined Bible quizzes, memorized and recited 12 verses every three months like clockwork, and even threw in 24 verses once or twice just to prove a point. I knew the routine, the scripture, the typical. It was familiar.
But I also had these moments—little signs that something deeper was happening. Once, when I was around 7 or 8, we had an uncle staying with us who shared a room with my brother and me. He had an exam the next morning—he’d been studying hard for it. That night, I had a dream. In it, I saw the exact score he was going to get. I told my brother when I woke up, and our uncle overheard us and laughed it off. He came back later that day holding the exact score from the dream. I wasn’t shocked. The dream hadn’t felt like a guess; it felt like remembering something that had already happened.
I share that to say—I knew the word, and I’d experienced glimpses of the supernatural. But none of that stopped doubt from creeping in. Slowly at first, then all at once. Eventually, it turned into a full-on obsession with atheism. I started watching YouTube debates, reading arguments, and testing ideas. I debated with my Christian friends constantly. I’d even preface those conversations with, “Hey, this might shake your faith. We can talk about something else if you want.” And while I believed I was right, a part of me always knew: making someone doubt what anchors them isn’t something to be proud of.
I got deep into it—so deep that I stopped quoting other people’s arguments and started building my own. I wasn’t just reciting arguments; I was reinventing the wheel.
But thank God for good friends. During one of those endless debates, a friend suggested I listen to a sermon series called Circumcision by Evangelist Kesiena Esiri. Five parts. I figured, why not? What could it hurt? Is it Pride or God? I’d say God.
Turns out, it was the start of everything changing.
That series marked the beginning of my return. Not in a lightning-bolt way. More like… a quiet unfolding. A slow remembering of something I never fully forgot.
So yeah—this is where the journey back began. Not the whole story, but definitely the first real chapter.