I’ve spent most of my life identifying with the prodigal son… But the Lord has been making radical changes in my heart…  I used to think my wounds disqualified me from loving well. Now I’m starting to see they trained me… the truth is: the son who receives mercy becomes the father who gives it.

Y’all ever crawl in the tub just to soak? Like, no soap — just sit there awhile and then climb back out as dirty as before? Yeah… I do that more often than I’d like to admit. And it hit me today how much that resembles my spiritual life lately. Showing up for the dang thing, even soaking in it, but missing the point entirely. Yep. That’s me.

I’ll begin plainly: psychedelic‑assisted therapy has been one of the most healing experiences of my life. I did not encounter a counterfeit god. I did not receive a new religion. I did not abandon the sacraments or the Church. Instead, I found myself more able to pray, more able to forgive, more able to love, and more able to trust that God desires my healing.

“Fine. I’m done fighting. I’m gay. Let’s geaux.”

And for a while, it felt like freedom — the laughter, the friendships, the relief of not hiding. It was real. But underneath it all was a quiet ache, a homesickness I couldn’t shake… the truth that I was trying to build an identity too small for the weight of my soul.

I used to think if God was a blacksmith, then I was a speck in the refuse pile… (but) I am a work in progress under a deliberate hand… He is the Master of crafting a Joshua Paul Richard, and He has never once swung His hammer in vain… I am not being shaped into something disposable, but into something desired… Something He intends to keep closeby.

And when I look at Thomas, I don’t see a failure. I see a man who finally said out loud what the rest of us whisper in the dark: “I want to believe… but I need help.” Not wretched doubting Thomas — blessed curious Thomas… So today, I’m not ashamed to stand with Thomas… Because the God who welcomed Thomas’ doubt is the same God who is healing mine.

I was the opposite — the most wretched of wretches. And yet… Easter keeps happening in me. The God who died and rose again has set His hands on my ruins. There is a chasm between who I was — the B.C. Joshua — and who I am becoming through His grace. Christ is risen, and He is raising this poor boy with Him.

Take the Judas in me and heal what fear has broken. Take the Peter in me and strengthen what weakness has undone. Take the longing in me for John’s nearness and draw me closer to Your heart than I dare to come on my own.

The God who made galaxies walked up to a fig tree looking for breakfast… God doesn’t need anything from me,
yet He chooses to hunger for what only I can give… And I want to be found fruitful when His eyes fall on me.

I’ve failed at Lent, failed at discipline, failed at becoming the man I’m supposed to be… God has been collaborating with my mess, not waiting for me to get it together… My failures haven’t disqualified me. They’ve made room for grace to do what I cannot.

I carry your words with me. I carry your loyalty. I carry the memory of that last day — the laughter, the music, the pain, the blessing. I carry the way you looked at me and told me who I was. And I’m trying, in my own imperfect way, to live up to the man you saw.

I’m a wretch from the bayou, but a wretch that belongs—held by a mercy that’s louder than wrongs… I’m a wretch, yes— but a wretch in His hands, a violin singing what His love commands.

This is the rhythm of my life: stumble and fall, kneel, stand up, stumble and fall again. Yet it is here, in the painful ebb and flow of repentance, that I have encountered the inexhaustible love of the Father. Listen closely: my life is proof that I am a wretched sinner, that love never fails, and mercy never quits. Matthew 18:22 “Not seven times, but seventy times seven.”