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Introductory Video
This was my first reel introducing myself and my memoir, Straight to Hell, on June 13, 2025.
Why I Wrote Straight to Hell
I’m often asked what inspired me to write such a personal memoir—and why I was willing to expose so many intimate details of my life.
In this reel, I open up about the “why” behind Straight to Hell.
In this reel, I open up about the “why” behind Straight to Hell.
Ch. 1: Deep Cuts
I grew barefoot in the red clay of South Alabama, where hunger and neglect were ordinary.
Look closely at the left hand, tucked beneath the sleeve, still discolored from the axe incident.
Faith began there, in the empty spaces where comfort should have been.
Look closely at the left hand, tucked beneath the sleeve, still discolored from the axe incident.
Faith began there, in the empty spaces where comfort should have been.
Ch. 1: The One Who Tried
She sat on the porch swing, half-blind and half-gone.
While we played in the wood yard, she stared past us into some place only she could see.
Granny belonged to a generation that survived everything except softness.
If I inherited anything from her, it was endurance dressed as strength.
While we played in the wood yard, she stared past us into some place only she could see.
Granny belonged to a generation that survived everything except softness.
If I inherited anything from her, it was endurance dressed as strength.
Mom
She was barely more than a girl herself — four children before 20, three marriages by 22.
The world asked more of her than she had to give.
She left, and then returned for me when I was five.
She loved me the way she knew how —
imperfect, flickering, but real.
The world asked more of her than she had to give.
She left, and then returned for me when I was five.
She loved me the way she knew how —
imperfect, flickering, but real.
Left Behind
Nanny and Granddaddy took us in when Mom left to find a life she could survive in.
When she returned, she came with a choice: go with her and her new husband, or remain with Nanny and Granddaddy.
Only I went with Mom.
That early separation carved a loneliness into me that I carried for years—
the ache of being chosen and left, all at once.
When she returned, she came with a choice: go with her and her new husband, or remain with Nanny and Granddaddy.
Only I went with Mom.
That early separation carved a loneliness into me that I carried for years—
the ache of being chosen and left, all at once.
Ch. 2: Angel in Blue Knickers
Ma protected me and called me her "special boy." She introduced me to God and the church at age six.
Ma's wisdom, delivered with love and a little grit:
"Don't let the screen door slam."
"Don't make such an ugly face when you cry."
"Ya gotta git it out from behind ya eyes so you can see it."
Ma's wisdom, delivered with love and a little grit:
"Don't let the screen door slam."
"Don't make such an ugly face when you cry."
"Ya gotta git it out from behind ya eyes so you can see it."
Ch. 3: Home is Where the Hard Is
Home stopped feeling safe when I was very young.
What you don’t see in this photo is the chaos behind it—alcohol, betrayal, late nights, and a child learning to stay small.
That’s where my search for safety began.
What you don’t see in this photo is the chaos behind it—alcohol, betrayal, late nights, and a child learning to stay small.
That’s where my search for safety began.
Ch. 4: Imaginary Friend
At six, home was already a place I needed to escape, even while still inside it.
Faith became my hiding place.
With God, I talked to someone who felt real—someone who made me feel less alone.
You could call Him imaginary.
But to me, He was the first one who didn’t leave.
Faith became my hiding place.
With God, I talked to someone who felt real—someone who made me feel less alone.
You could call Him imaginary.
But to me, He was the first one who didn’t leave.
Murder Creek
Hard to believe, but Murder Creek is a real place in Alabama. Its peaceful waters hide a violent history.
Read about it in the following link:
Read about it in the following link:
Ch. 2-4: Murder Creek
This is where we bathed, washed our car, and sometimes did laundry.
It's also the site of my first baptism.
It's also the site of my first baptism.
Burnt Corn, AL
Yes, Burnt Corn is real too—an Alabama town with a name that hints at its fiery beginnings.
Ch. 5: The Hungry Years
From nine to twelve, Mom and I lived in a pull-behind camper.
Hunger was constant, fear was familiar.
These were the years when my belief hardened into something solid and unshakable—the one steady thing in an unsteady world.
And it’s where I first learned that survival was up to me.
Hunger was constant, fear was familiar.
These were the years when my belief hardened into something solid and unshakable—the one steady thing in an unsteady world.
And it’s where I first learned that survival was up to me.
Ch. 6: The Shame That Named Me
At 12, when my truth first whispered in a forbidden direction, I buried it beneath these pages—
believing faith demanded silence and self-erasure.
I called it obedience.
But looking back, it was fear and shame wearing a cross.
believing faith demanded silence and self-erasure.
I called it obedience.
But looking back, it was fear and shame wearing a cross.
Ch. 7: My Brother, My Shadow
Pictured: Mom and Terry
Terry pushed every boundary.
I clung to them, believing obedience might erase what felt wrong in me.
I didn’t know then that he wasn’t just my brother—
he was the shadow I spent a lifetime trying to outrun.
Terry pushed every boundary.
I clung to them, believing obedience might erase what felt wrong in me.
I didn’t know then that he wasn’t just my brother—
he was the shadow I spent a lifetime trying to outrun.
Brothers Keeping Time
Terry was a drummer, and I was a pianist.
Music was the one place where we moved in rhythm—
where the world felt steady, even when we didn’t.
Music was the one place where we moved in rhythm—
where the world felt steady, even when we didn’t.
Against the Odds
I was the first person in my family ever to graduate from high school.
No map.
No blueprint.
Just determination—
and the belief there had to be more.
No map.
No blueprint.
Just determination—
and the belief there had to be more.
Ch. 9: Sanctified Silence
At twenty, I was a married father fighting to keep my “defect” from shattering the home we were building.
My wife and I buried the truth by “giving it to God,” calling the silence surrender.
But what we sealed away never disappeared—
—it only waited.
My wife and I buried the truth by “giving it to God,” calling the silence surrender.
But what we sealed away never disappeared—
—it only waited.
Ch 10: A Man of God
This photo was taken while pastoring our first church in Evergreen, AL.
I was convinced that if I just prayed harder, preached louder, fasted longer—
—God would cleanse me of myself and make me straight.
I was convinced that if I just prayed harder, preached louder, fasted longer—
—God would cleanse me of myself and make me straight.
Lee University: My First Real Escape
At Lee University, I wasn’t just seeking a degree.
I was seeking escape—
from small-town limits, from poverty, from the ache for healing.
It was the first place that felt like possibility.
I was seeking escape—
from small-town limits, from poverty, from the ache for healing.
It was the first place that felt like possibility.
Sermon clip
April 27, 1997
This one-minute clip is from a live radio broadcast on Sunday morning, April 4, 1997—less than a year before Terry’s death.
You can hear the faith of a man clinging to the belief that if he stayed faithful, God would "change his nature" and make him straight.
But while I preached hope to others, I was quietly drowning in my own despair.
I share this not in mockery, but in reverence—for the desperate faith that once held me together before it finally tore me apart.
You can hear the faith of a man clinging to the belief that if he stayed faithful, God would "change his nature" and make him straight.
But while I preached hope to others, I was quietly drowning in my own despair.
I share this not in mockery, but in reverence—for the desperate faith that once held me together before it finally tore me apart.
Ch. 13-14: Love Thy Brother
Terry’s death was the moment my life split in two—before and after.
The ground shifted. Faith collapsed.
Within a year, everything I loved was gone.
The ground shifted. Faith collapsed.
Within a year, everything I loved was gone.
Ch. 25: Ocoee River
The site of my "unchurched" baptism in the wilderness of the Cherokee National Forest.
The river didn’t cleanse me—it revealed me. Its cold water stripped away illusion until only truth remained.
Here, I buried the man I once was: the believer, the pariah, the reprobate. When I rose, it wasn’t to meet God, but to meet myself—reborn not by grace, but by grit.
The river didn’t cleanse me—it revealed me. Its cold water stripped away illusion until only truth remained.
Here, I buried the man I once was: the believer, the pariah, the reprobate. When I rose, it wasn’t to meet God, but to meet myself—reborn not by grace, but by grit.
Lazarus
(original song)
I wrote and recorded this song with Johna in 2014.
It was born from the experience of banishment described between Chapters 23 and 25— that liminal space between death and resurrection, when the soul first begins to breathe again.
Our recording name was Breaking Rank.
It was born from the experience of banishment described between Chapters 23 and 25— that liminal space between death and resurrection, when the soul first begins to breathe again.
Our recording name was Breaking Rank.
Ch. 30: Did You Ever Love Mom?
When Cami moved to Atlanta to live with me, we found our way back to each other and began to heal.
This photo, taken at her wedding—six months before I met Chris—
was the first image of me standing unhidden, living openly as a gay man.
This photo, taken at her wedding—six months before I met Chris—
was the first image of me standing unhidden, living openly as a gay man.
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