Diary of a First-Generation Christian
To preface, I don’t typically call myself a Christian. I prefer the term “disciple of Jesus Christ” because it embodies being a doer of His word, not just a hearer. In Western culture, there are a lot of hearers that treat Christianity like a contest rather than a covenant—a culture of people who want the promise without enduring the process. But for the sake of contextual familiarity, Christian—one who is fully surrendered, in fellowship, and obedient to Christ—will be used for this post.
Where Faith Was Spoken but Not Lived
I didn’t grow up in a godless home, but it wasn’t the godliest either. On Sundays, I’d attend church with my mother while my father stayed home, pouring communion from a bottle. By evening, I’d be kneeling at the foot of my bed, whispering my nighttime prayer over the sound of my parents fighting. Throughout the week, chaos reigned. And Sunday’s sermon, meant to heal, was twisted into a weapon, used to control and condemn.
I learned early that proximity to church didn’t mean closeness to Christ. In our home, I heard the name Jesus, but I didn’t see Him exemplified. The Bible was present but rarely opened. God was supreme in theory, yet no one submitted to His will. And if this is what it meant to be Christian, I wanted no part of it.
Pretty soon, church became optional, and prayer became an elective.
And the world — loud, glittering, seductive — became my new territory I was willing to explore.
The Drift Before the Return
The world welcomed me with open arms, giving me the freedom to live the way I wanted. I filled my time with things that felt good in the moment — drinking, smoking, promiscuity, parties, anything that helped me avoid facing the reality of my home life and the dysfunction stirring in my spirit.
I leaned more into what felt real in the moment, even if it was temporary. Although I looked fine on the outside, inside, I was drained — emotionally, spiritually, even physically. And the more I tried to fill the void, the more obvious it became that something was missing.
I didn’t think much about God, but when I did, I figured He had better things to do than worry about me.
I'd convinced myself that I didn’t need Him. That I could write my story and live without Him. The biblical characters and principles I remembered from Sunday School felt like echoes from a life I didn’t ask to live. I didn’t feel connected to any of it. It was like looking at someone else’s life and trying to pretend it was mine.
However, years later, I found myself face down on my living room floor — convicted by the weight of my sin — crying out to the God I used to sing to in church. I was desperate. I begged the Lord to reveal Himself to me and show me who I was beneath the mess.
And He did.
Forty-five Dollars Well Spent
I expected my life to drastically change after that moment, but it didn’t. Instead, there was a gradual shift in my appetite. The things I used to crave were no longer appealing to me. Vices that once felt good started to feel pointless. Foods I gluttonously ate became bland and tasteless. I even felt uncomfortable in familiar places with familiar people, music, conversations, and habits. I could no longer ignore the tension.
It wasn’t that I became perfect, no, I was still struggling. But something in me shifted. I wanted something different. I wanted better.
And for the first time in my life, I wanted God.
So much that I took my last $45 down to The Ohio Bookstore and bought my first Bible — a Thomas Nelson NKJV Study Bible. I’d been eyeing it for weeks, hesitant since most books in the store were under ten dollars, but this one stood out.
It outshone the others displayed in the glass case near the front. Its gold foil-trimmed pages, wrapped in smooth, bonded leather, intrigued me. Not to mention it was the only one of its kind in the store. Was God’s Word really that special? I’d soon find out. And it would become the best $45 I’d ever spend.
After purchasing the Bible, I didn’t read it right away. I flipped through it a few times, curious but not committed. It would be seven years before I truly began reading and studying God's word. Seven years of wandering, wrestling, and slowly waking up to the fact that I couldn’t heal without Truth.
The Turning Point
That Bible sat on my bookshelf like a seed — waiting for the soil of my heart to soften. And when I finally opened it with intention, the scales were removed from my eyes.
God showed me that following Him wasn’t just about knowing His word. It was about doing it, living it, and becoming it. And I soon realized I was becoming the first from my household to walk this out. Not just to believe in God and profess the name Jesus with my mouth, but to follow Him.
To surrender.
To obey.
With spiritual eyes, I saw the dysfunctional patterns I once accepted as normal for what they truly were: cycles of spiritual apathy and a quiet comfort in the enemy’s grip. What I used to call survival was actually bondage.
Through faint but persistent whispers, the Holy Spirit revealed that for generations, my family built their lives in the wilderness, a place never intended for permanent residency. They were content with manna from heaven, just enough to get by.
But again, I wanted more.
I longed for the land flowing with milk and honey, the fullness of what God had promised. Not just provision, but transformation.
Not just tradition, but truth.
Not just religion, but a relationship.
Obedience Better Than Sacrifice
Walking in obedience meant stepping into unfamiliar territory—territory my relatives hadn’t entered or experienced. I was becoming the first to pursue a life shaped by God’s word.
I was becoming the first to do His will, not just hear it.
The first to move beyond Sunday rituals into daily surrender.
The first to ask hard questions, set boundaries, and choose healing over hiding.
And while I loved my family, I couldn’t stay with them. God was calling me out. Not because I was better, but because I was willing.
Willing to break the chains.
Willing to leave the wilderness.
Willing to walk toward healing.
Although God’s call exposed more than I expected—old wounds, hidden fears, and the weight of being the first—it also gave me something I’d never had before: clarity.
I began to see myself as God did, not through the lens of my past or generational familial patterns. I was healing.
I was growing.
I was becoming.
Obedience became my new rhythm, not for perfection, but for pursuit.
I didn’t always get it right, but I kept showing up. And as a result, I stopped settling for just enough and started walking toward the promise.
Faith Without Proof
Being a first-generation Christian means planting seeds in soil that’s never been tilled. It's breaking cycles, confronting strongholds, and choosing truth over comfort.
Never truly having an example of this kind of faith in action stretched my faith like never before. I didn’t grow up seeing what restoration looked like. I didn’t witness firsthand God’s power to heal a marriage, break an addiction, or transform a life. I didn’t have a blueprint for obedience—only fragments of religion and scars from survival.
So when God called me to walk differently, I had to trust Him without personal proof.
Instead of looking to my immediate circle, I looked to scripture. I drew strength from Abraham’s obedience, Job’s endurance, Joseph’s integrity, Ruth’s loyalty, David’s repentance, Paul’s transformation, and the Prodigal Son’s return.
These stories keep me anchored.
They remind me that going first often means walking without a map, sometimes alone, but never without a Guide. Their faith shows me that although obedience may cost everything, it also births legacy.
And this, my friend, is the beginning of a new legacy.
If you’re the first, fear not. God has gone before you and is building something eternal through your obedience.
Stay faithful.
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