Reflections from a Former Navy Officer

Having served as a Navy Lieutenant Commander in intelligence for nearly two decades, I thought I had a clear path lined up. My wife, Sharon, and I were managing a software business focused on federal agencies while enjoying a quiet life on our small farm in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Then, everything changed one morning when FBI agents, heavily armed, broke into our existence following the unrest surrounding the January 6th Capitol protests.

That day marked the start of a harrowing ordeal, leading to my arrest for something I didn’t do. I found myself in solitary confinement that felt, quite frankly, like an icy dungeon. I was up against a legal system that seemed determined to dismantle everything Sharon and I had built together.

A thought struck me: “How am I going to escape this?” Perhaps I needed to seize control of the situation in some way.

Life has a way of presenting moments where, quite suddenly, what you thought defined you is stripped away. For me, that moment came in a supermax prison cell in Virginia. I was flat on the cold concrete, a guard having just struck my spine. I watched helplessly as the door closed shut, sealing off any hope I had left.

In that isolated space, I felt utterly devoid of pride or dignity. My vitality and ambition vanished, leaving only despair and hopelessness. It was like I was caught in the merciless rhythm of human suffering.

So, I started to ponder whether places of extreme suffering can actually contain the human spirit. Can dungeons and dark passageways embed the sorrow and anguish, making time itself circle around that very pain? In that cell, it felt all too real.

Suddenly, in the grip of my darkest thoughts, a light flickered. As a Christian, the belief that I would eventually find peace in heaven became a strong counter-argument against the idea of ending my own life. Why endure this abuse when I could be with Jesus, my loved ones, and my dog in a place free from hurt? Surely, that seemed a kind of relief amidst my despair. My pain would cease, and Sharon would be left unharmed.

I had drifted so far into darkness that I began entertaining some deeply troubling thoughts. Death, which I envisioned as a peaceful companion many years down the line, now felt more like an unwelcome presence, clinging to me in the throes of hopelessness. I overheard conversations among fellow inmates, especially during those quiet moments when no one else was watching.

Once again, a thought came to me: “I can’t keep going like this. Maybe I should just yield.”

So there, in that bleak place, I expressed my desire to return to God and end my suffering. My will to carry on seemed non-existent. Those who haven’t experienced such complete mental and physical collapse might not understand. It was like I was already half dead.

Curiously, it was perhaps the first time in my life that I, a person who always sought control, genuinely said, “Let Your will be done, Father.”

While I had lost all control over my life, that moment allowed me to surrender it to a higher power. Everything I thought was a part of me seemed to vanish in that hellish existence. Was this the essence of “dying to self”? Those once confusing Bible passages became oddly clear.

I found myself reflecting on what it meant to be human, on selfish desires and hopes I used to have for a future filled with joy alongside Sharon. They felt distant now, lost like fleeting dreams and forgotten morning coffee.

In all honesty, they held no value anymore.

At that moment, I struggled to find the words to pray. The depth of my devastation left me speechless. All I could muster was, “Lord, whatever you have in store must be better than this. Can we please take a different route? This situation stinks.”

To my surprise, God welcomed me, even as the dim light of my life flickered in and out.

That surrender—utterly giving up control—was a turning point where my faith transformed from mere belief to a lived experience. It wasn’t a victory but felt like complete capitulation. Here, weakness emerged as my true strength. In my brokenness, I grasped what it genuinely means to have faith: to trust in God when you feel like you’ve lost everything, even yourself.

Through all the trials, both Sharon and I emerged stronger, buoyed by what can only be deemed miraculous interventions. Our love and shared faith in God helped us weather seemingly insurmountable storms. Even when faced with defamation and courtroom injustices, that moment of surrender in my cell empowered me to endure what felt like an insufferable burden.

I stand as living proof that true faith resides not in our abilities but in God’s strength, especially when ours has long since failed.