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By the age of six, I had an acute awareness that I was living in a strange and often unsettling world. My parents were devout Christians, though my mother’s faith was significantly more fervent than my father’s. Even as a child, I noticed contradictions in the church and, more specifically, in its leadership. The pastor of our congregation, a man who should have been a moral compass, was deeply troubled. Tragically, he preyed on young boys. My parents, ever vigilant and overprotective, never left me or my brother alone with him. Sadly, other families were not as cautious. Those who entrusted their children to this man suffered unimaginable losses. Many of the boys he abused did not live past 25, often succumbing to AIDS at a young age.

Even at that young age, I could sense there was something profoundly wrong with our pastor. Whenever I accidentally made eye contact with him—something I tried to avoid—his gaze unsettled me. It was predatory, like a famished man eyeing a sumptuous meal. His look gave me the creeps. My brother and I sang in the church choir from the ages of six to nine, and our elevated position in the choir stand offered some measure of safety. Tucked into a corner of the midsized church, we were somewhat removed from the congregation seated in the pews below. It was a small reprieve, allowing us to pass notes and play games like tic-tac-toe or SOS while avoiding the pastor’s unsettling presence. This was long before the era of smartphones, so these simple games were our refuge.

Despite my efforts to block him out, there were moments when I tried to listen to the pastor’s sermons. I wanted to understand what he was preaching, but his words felt alien and impenetrable. I would quickly lose interest and return my attention to our games. His messages never resonated with me. Looking back, it’s clear I was an “old soul,” as some might say. Even as a child, I sensed a disconnect between the superficial teachings I was exposed to and a deeper truth I felt but couldn’t articulate.

There was always a part of me that felt out of place, as though I didn’t truly belong in this world. It wasn’t a sense of despair but rather a quiet understanding that Earth wasn’t my ultimate home. This feeling has only grown stronger with time. As I’ve matured and gained perspective, I’ve started to yearn for what I can only describe as a return home. It’s a longing that’s difficult to explain but impossible to ignore. This isn’t to say that I don’t value life; I cherish it deeply. I love my two children with all my heart and am committed to ensuring their well-being and security. My thoughts aren’t driven by despair but by a sense of spiritual anticipation.

Reflecting on these early experiences, I’m grateful for the vigilance and discernment of my parents. Their protection shielded my brother and me from a dangerous predator. At the same time, the contradictions I observed in the church—the disparity between what was preached and what was practiced—taught me valuable lessons about humanity. These experiences shaped my understanding of the world and deepened my commitment to seeking truth and authenticity.

As I navigate life, the sense of being an outsider has become a quiet strength. It’s a reminder that my journey is unique and that the longing I feel points to something greater than myself. This awareness doesn’t detract from my love for the here and now. Instead, it enriches my perspective, allowing me to appreciate life’s beauty while holding space for the mysteries of what lies beyond. Life, with all its complexities, is a gift—one I strive to honor every day.