Then the rainstorm came over me, and I felt my spirit break.
I had lost all of my belief, you see. And realized my mistake.
Some things in life aren’t taken. They are willfully given. A kiss. A cut. A jab.
I found myself tied to a stake.
But someone said a prayer for me. And all around me became steel.
I need to tell you something, and I’m not going to dress it up.
There are things I cannot do. Not because I lack the will. Not because I lack the fire. Because I cut parts of myself off in my younger years, and they didn’t grow back.
You understand what I’m saying?
I’m not talking about a mistake you bounce back from. I’m talking about amputations. Self-inflicted. The kind where you wake up twenty years later and the phantom limb still itches, but there’s nothing there to scratch.
I did things before and after Christ got ahold of me that left permanent marks. Not scars. Scars heal over. These are missing pieces. Functions I can’t perform. Doors that welded shut behind me while I was busy burning down the house.
And for years — years — I let that define me.
I sat in it. Marinated in it. Let the enemy whisper his favorite sermon on repeat: You’re disqualified. Look what you did. Who are you to speak? Who are you to teach? Who are you to stand up and say anything to anyone?
And I believed him.
You ever watch a one-armed man see someone get mugged across the street?
He sees it happening. He knows what needs to be done. Every fiber in his body says GO. But he looks down, and there’s only one arm. And the math doesn’t work. He can’t restrain the attacker and help the victim at the same time. He can’t do what the two-armed man can do.
So what does he do?
Does he sit on the bench and weep about the arm he lost?
Or does he cross the street with the one he’s got and do what he can?
That’s me.
That’s what you’re reading right now. Every post. Every guide. Every publication. Every 3 AM email I send to my list when the house is dark, and my family is sleeping, and I’m bleeding onto a keyboard because I can’t stop.
This is the one-armed man crossing the street.
“But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.” — 2 Corinthians 4:7
Paul didn’t say we have this treasure in polished silver. He said earthen vessels. Clay pots. Cracked. Chipped. Missing handles. The kind you’d walk past at a yard sale.
That’s the container God chose.
Not despite the cracks. Through them.
I was a garbage truck driver. A train conductor. A man who failed his wife so many times she had every right to walk and didn’t. A man who looked his children in the eyes and knew they deserved a father who hadn’t burned half his life to the ground before they were born.
I’m not standing in front of you whole.
I’m standing in front of you, useful.
There’s a difference.
And I need you to hear this part because it matters:
Every single thing I’ve built — the Substacks, the guides, the manuals, the frameworks, the products, the teachings — all of it exists because I decided the one arm I had left was going to work until it fell off too.
I cannot undo what I did. I cannot regrow what I severed. I cannot go back to 13 and slap the match out of my own hand and say, boy, you have no idea what you’re about to cost yourself.
But I can write.
I can tell the truth.
I can take what God taught me in the wreckage and hand it to the man still standing in the fire.
And I have met nothing but resistance.
You want to know what it’s like to speak biblical truth in 2026?
Every platform throttles you. Every algorithm buries you. Every word you write gets flagged, shadowbanned, suppressed, reported. They don’t want people reading what I write. They don’t want fathers finding what I built. They don’t want marriages getting fixed by a cracked clay pot who won’t stop talking about the Bible and the blood of Christ.
I’ve been banned. I’ve been flagged. I’ve been memory-holed.
I’ve watched posts that took six hours to write reach twelve people.
And I kept going.
Because the one-armed man doesn’t get to quit just because the street is long.
So here’s what I need from you.
Not money. Not praise. Not a pat on the back.
I need you to help me get the truth out.
I built something. It’s called Dead Hidden. A place they can’t flag. A place they can’t throttle. A place where every guide, every manual, every framework I’ve ever written lives under one roof — and no algorithm decides who gets to see it.
It’s free to visit. Free to sign up. Free to read.
If what I’ve written has ever hit you in the chest — if a post ever made you put your phone down and sit in silence for a minute — if you ever forwarded something I wrote to your wife or your brother or your buddy who was falling apart —
Go to that site. Sign up. Share it with one man who needs it.
That’s it.
That’s how you help the one-armed man cross the street.
“For we are labourers together with God.” — 1 Corinthians 3:9
Not spectators. Labourers. You grab what I can’t carry. I’ll grab what you can’t reach. And together we drag the truth into the light where they can’t bury it.
My wife has watched me do this for years now. Watched me sit at the kitchen table at midnight, writing things that make me sick to my stomach because they’re true and they’re mine and they cost me something to say.
She said something to me last week that I haven’t been able to shake.
She said: “You’re not the man you were. But you’re the man they need.”
I don’t know if I deserve that.
But I know I’m not done.
The one-armed man is crossing the street.
Come with me.
deadhidden.org — The things they buried. The truth they can’t kill.