The summer heat in June 2001 was heavy, but the weight inside my mind was heavier. For months, I had been searching. I spent hours studying the words of different ministers and reading what various leaders had to say about scripture. They had their answers, but I realized I did not have mine. I was tired of living on borrowed faith. I needed to discover my own personal relationship with God.
That was the month the vision came. It was not a gentle whisper; it was a clear, undeniable calling to carry a full-size wooden cross through the streets of my hometown, Cleburne, Texas. It felt radical, terrifying, and exactly what my soul needed to break through the noise.
On July 4th, 2001, while the rest of the country celebrated independence, I took my first steps toward spiritual freedom. I hoisted the heavy wooden cross onto my shoulder and began to walk. The wood pressed hard against my skin, and every step forced me into the present moment. Passersby stared. Some honked, some waved, and others just watched in silence. In that sweat-drenched silence beneath the Texas sun, the distance between me and God began to close. Faith was no longer a concept in a book; it was the strength keeping my legs moving.
I walked that cross through Cleburne several more times over the next few months. Each journey stripped away another layer of doubt, replacing the theology of other men with a firsthand experience of grace and endurance. But the calling was growing, pushing me past the borders of my comfort zone.
By late autumn, the local roads gave way to a much larger highway. On November 4th, 2001, I lifted the cross once again, turning my face south toward Houston. That long, grueling highway stretching from Cleburne to Houston became my sanctuary. Mile after mile, asphalt gave way to prayer. My muscles ached and my feet blistered, but my spirit finally found its footing. By the time the Houston skyline appeared on the horizon, I wasn't just carrying a cross—I was entirely carried by a faith that was, at last, truly my own.