My Testimony: The Moment Scales Fell From My Eyes at Age 11

I was eleven years old when scales fell from my eyes and hit the bathroom floor.

I'm not speaking metaphorically.

Before

Let me back up. I grew up in a loving family — by every outward measure, I had what a kid needs. But inside, I didn't feel loved. There was a rage in me that I couldn't explain. I hated. I was violent. And at the same time, I was deeply empathetic. I cared for people in ways that exhausted me, and I wished — more than anything — that someone would care for me the way I cared for others.

The nights were the worst. I had nightmares constantly. Not the normal kind that kids have about monsters under the bed. These felt real. Oppressive. I was convinced demons were haunting me, and I don't mean that as a figure of speech. I could feel their presence the way you feel someone standing behind you in a dark room.

I believed God existed. But only because I also believed the demons existed. If the darkness was real, then the light had to be real too. But I didn't feel like the light had any interest in me. God was out there somewhere, but He didn't care. Not about me.

The Prayer

Then my grandfather died.

He was the one person in my life who I felt treated me better than anyone. He saw me. When he was gone, I was devastated — not just with grief, but with a terrifying question: How do I go through life with no one in my corner?

That's when I prayed my first real prayer.

I wasn't in a church. I wasn't at an altar call. I was alone, outside, and I spoke to the wind. I said something like: God, if you're real — show me.

That's it. No fancy words. No theology. Just a broken kid throwing a rope into the dark and hoping someone would grab the other end.

The Dream

That night, my nightmares stopped.

Not gradually. Not over time. That night. Gone.

Instead, a new dream came. And it came every night for two weeks straight.

I saw a castle. It was large and old and falling apart — dilapidated, with vines crawling over the stone walls and up through the gates. The gates were massive, heavy, rusted. And there was a man standing outside them.

He was knocking.

The gates had no handles on the outside. There was no way to open them from where he stood. The only way to open those gates was from the inside.

And I was standing on the inside.

Every night, the same dream. The same man. The same knocking. The same gates that only I could open.

It took me two weeks to understand what I was seeing.

The Scales

I was in the bathroom at my house. Just standing there. And it hit me all at once — that man was Jesus. He'd been knocking every night for two weeks, and I'd been standing on the other side of the gate, watching, not understanding.

"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he to me." — Revelation 3:20

The moment I understood, I fell to my knees on the bathroom floor and started crying. Not sad tears. Something deeper — something breaking open. I apologized to God for not seeing Him. For not believing He cared. And I asked Him to come in. To be with me.

What happened next, I have never been able to fully explain.

Something hard fell out of my eyes and hit the floor.

I'm not exaggerating. I'm not embellishing. Something physical — small, hard — dropped from my eyes onto the tile. I was so shocked that I got on my hands and knees and groped around the floor trying to find whatever it was. But I couldn't. It was gone.

Years later, I read the story of Saul's conversion in Acts chapter 9. Saul — the man who persecuted Christians, who held the coats of those who stoned Stephen — was struck blind on the road to Damascus. And when Ananias laid hands on him and he received the Holy Spirit, the Bible says: "And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith."

Scales.

When I read that passage for the first time, I stopped breathing. Because I knew exactly what that felt like. I didn't just read about it in a book. It happened to me, on a bathroom floor, when I was eleven years old.

Since Then

I won't pretend I've walked a perfect road since that day. I haven't always followed God the way I should have. I've wandered. I've stumbled. I've ignored His voice when it was inconvenient.

But I follow Him now with my whole heart. And I know — not believe, know — that He is true, just, faithful, and good. He is for me and not against me. He is the one, and there is no other.

That's not theology for me. That's not something I read in a commentary. That's something I experienced on a cold bathroom floor when I was a kid who thought nobody cared about him.

He knocked. I opened. And everything changed.

That's why I wrote Surviving the Antichrist. Because the same God who showed up for a broken eleven-year-old is about to show up for the whole world. And I want everyone to be ready.

Surviving the Antichrist is available now on Amazon.