I never expected God to pull a man like me out of a small, struggling screenprinting shop and set him in a pulpit. There was nothing about my life that looked like ministry material. I wasn’t raised in a pastor’s lineage, I didn’t carry a theological degree, and I certainly didn’t fit the mold most people imagine when they picture a church leader. My world revolved around orders, deadlines, ink stains, production issues, and the grind of trying to keep a small business alive in a town that knows economic pressure far too well. Yet even as I pushed through long workdays, there was a growing uneasiness in my spirit — something I couldn’t ignore, something I knew wasn’t from me.

I still run that shop today with the help of my family, doing the best we can with what we have, but somewhere along the way God began stirring something in me that had nothing to do with apparel or printing presses. The more I looked around at our community, our culture, and the state of the church in general, the more I felt the weight of the confusion, the pride, and the spiritual fog that had settled over people. It felt like a heaviness I couldn’t shake. Religion was replacing relationship. Noise was replacing truth. Comfort was replacing conviction. And the more I saw it, the more it burned inside me until I could no longer pretend it was just frustration. It was a calling — the kind that elbows its way into your life whether you’re ready or not.

When the opportunity came to step into the pulpit at Northern Light Church, it wasn’t a glamorous moment or a triumphant leap of faith. It was more like surrender. This was a church that had been through its share of battles — spiritual attacks, human pride, discouragement, and the lingering effects of wounds that don’t heal overnight. I wasn’t stepping into a polished sanctuary with a smooth path laid out in front of me. I was stepping into a storm. And I signed on for free. No salary, no promises, no safety net — just the conviction that what God had placed in me had to come out.

I remember telling the previous pastor early on, “God didn’t call a Solomon to this pulpit. He called a Paul.” I meant it as an honest acknowledgment of my own place in the story. I am not the refined, eloquent, soft-spoken type. My demeanor is serious; people often misunderstand it as anger. I speak directly. I don’t tiptoe around issues or dress truth in soft language. I see things plainly, and I say them plainly. For most of my life, I assumed that was a flaw — something that disqualified me from the kind of ministry people expect. But the more I stepped into what God was doing, the more I realized that my personality wasn’t a mistake or an obstacle. It was the very equipment God had given me for the work He intended me to do.

Scripture confirms this. God doesn’t flatten personalities; He redeems them. Paul didn’t stop being intense when he met Christ. Peter didn’t stop being bold. John didn’t lose his tenderness. Elijah didn’t tone down his fire. God used men exactly as He built them, not by changing their personalities but by changing their ownership. He took the same features that once caused problems and turned them into weapons for truth. Seeing that pattern helped me understand my own calling more clearly: God wasn’t trying to make me into someone else. He was using me exactly as He designed me.

As I continued preaching, it became even more obvious how deeply our world has lost its grip on truth. We have become a society that celebrates sin, mocks Scripture, redefines morality, and follows emotion over revelation. People are drowning in religious activity but starving for actual gospel clarity. Once you see this, you cannot unsee it. You can’t step back into silence. You can’t pretend everything is fine. God had opened my eyes, and when He does that, He expects you to speak.

So here I am — a screenprint shop owner who still wrestles with bills and slow seasons, now standing behind a pulpit in a church that God is rebuilding one soul at a time. Nothing about me fits the stereotype, and I’m grateful for that. God didn’t pull me into ministry because I had everything figured out. He called me because He wanted a voice that wouldn’t back down from truth, wouldn’t sugarcoat Scripture, and wouldn’t compromise under cultural pressure. He wanted someone who would preach the gospel with clarity, simplicity, and conviction — not because it’s easy, but because eternity is real.

I’m not a Solomon. I’m not polished or elegant. I’m a Paul — serious, straightforward, imperfect, redeemed, and relentless when it comes to the truth of Jesus Christ. And I’ve learned that God does His best work through people who stop trying to act like someone else and simply surrender who they already are.