I asked Jesus into my heart when I was 6 years old.

That is where my story begins.

Not in the Teams. Not behind a rifle. Not in law enforcement. Not in politics. Long before any of that, I was a little boy in Alabama, raised in a home where the Gospel of Jesus Christ was not just something we heard on Sunday.

I grew up surrounded by parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles who believed the Gospel and lived as it mattered. My dad is a Baptist preacher. Before I could read Scripture for myself, he was already reading it over me. When he was finishing school at Liberty, he would lay me on his chest as a baby and read the Bible, papers he was writing, and the Word of God that was shaping his own life.

At the time, I was too young to know what any of that meant. Looking back now, it is clear the Lord was preparing the soil.

We lived in a trailer on my granddaddy’s farm in Gadsden. That was home. Not wealth. Not influence. Not some polished life built for politics. Just family, faith, hard work, and the kind of roots that hold a man steady when everything around him starts moving.

One night, I walked out of my bedroom and into my parents’ room and told them I wanted to ask Jesus into my heart.

They did what faithful parents do. They did not brush it off. They did not turn it into a performance. They walked me........

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