Belonging When You’re Sure You Don’t

I almost didn’t walk into Peace Tower Church that first Sunday.

Not because I didn’t believe.

But because I was afraid someone would recognize me.

When I landed back in Canada on March 1, 2025, I made a decision: I would not be one of those inmates who leave Jesus at the gates. Christ carried me through prison — through isolation, shame, and long nights when the noise in my head was louder than the range.

I wasn’t abandoning Him.

But walking into a church is different than walking into a prison chapel.

In prison, everyone has a record. In church, I wasn’t so sure.

The worst-case scenario looped in my mind that morning:

Someone approaches me in the lobby.

“Aren’t you the guy from the headlines?”

Then a quiet conversation with the pastor.

Then the words I feared most:

“I don’t think this is the right place for you.”

I had already been convicted in a courtroom. I didn’t know if I could survive being rejected in a sanctuary.

So I showed up early. I needed to feel the room before the room felt me.

And I was watching everyone.

Wondering if they were watching me.

The first church I visited didn’t fit. That’s fine. Not every place is meant to be yours.

During the week, I searched from the library and found Peace Tower Church. Pentecostal. Spirit-filled. Biblically aligned.

But alignment on paper means nothing if you’re not welcome in the building.

I expected tension.

I found warmth.

Real conversations. Older men who looked me in the eye. No rush. No weirdness. Just coffee, cookies, and time.

After nearly three years locked up, socializing didn’t come naturally. Prison teaches you to scan, to measure, to hold back. Discernment became second nature.

Who do I tell?
How much?
When?

I gave a brief version of my testimony to one man. That mattered. He became a mentor — steady, consistent, present.

But two weeks in, I knew I couldn’t stay halfway honest.

If I was going to build anything here, it had to be on the full truth.

So I emailed the lead pastor and laid it out in advance. No spin. No minimizing. Just facts.

The days before that meeting were brutal.

I wanted to cancel.

My heart raced.
My palms sweated.
My mind rehearsed exits.

What if he says this isn’t the place for you?
What if I’m a liability?
What if grace has limits?

I prepared myself to lose the only church that was starting to feel like home.

Instead, I found a shepherd.

He wasn’t calculating risk. He was listening.

That meeting changed something in me.

It was the first time I felt the weight of Epistle to the Romans 8:1 outside a prison chapel:

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

No condemnation.

Not in a courtroom.
Not in a church office.
Not in a sanctuary.

That doesn’t erase consequences. It doesn’t clean up headlines. But it means I don’t have to live under a spiritual sentence.

That summer, I was baptized at Peace Tower.

In front of the entire congregation.

And my 13-year-old daughter.

A man who once stood in handcuffs stood in a baptism tank while his daughter watched him declare his faith.

The associate pastor baptized me that day — the same man who later stood beside me as I gave my testimony at ARM on January 20th.

**Please note, unless otherwise stated, all images on this site are AI generated and do not resemble any real persons(s). Any resemblance to any person or place is purely coincidental.**

That wasn’t symbolic.

That was solidarity.

And still, I hesitated.

I missed the first membership class because I failed to calendar it. I told myself it wasn’t God’s timing.

Truth? Part of me was still afraid to sign anything.

Signing felt like stepping fully into the light.

So I prayed and asked God to make it clear whether Peace Tower was where I belonged.

He answered with a crisis.

I didn’t like the method.

But crisis reveals who stays.

Who calls.
Who checks in.
Who stands beside you when your past is inconvenient.

That was my answer.

On February 22, 2026, I sat in a basement classroom with others ready to become members.

But I already knew something by then.

Belonging isn’t a signature.

Belonging is being fully known and not asked to leave.

For a man with my history, that is no small mercy.

This post isn’t really about joining a church.

It’s about walking into a sanctuary knowing your worst mistake could walk in behind you… and choosing not to run.

I used to think church would be a place that tolerated me.

Instead, I found a place that received me.

And for someone who once expected the door to close in his face —

Walking back through those doors every Sunday isn’t routine.

It’s defiance.

Note that the image above is an actual photo of Peace Tower Church, which I took last year.