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The morning the DEA walked into a small Charleston clinic, a life split in two. One moment a respected physician, the next a number, a cell, and a label that would follow forever. What unfolded after the raid wasn’t a neat comeback—it was cold floors, no visitors, and a verse on loop: “Be anxious for nothing.” And from that stripped place, a different kind of story took root.
We sit with a raw account of shock, shame, and the slow work of grace. You’ll hear about the Christian group that showed up with toiletries, the radio sermon that landed like a lifeline, and the hard decision to keep living when despair felt easier. We talk plainly about what a felony changes—travel bans, lost rights, doors that stay closed—and what it doesn’t: the capacity to love, to learn, to serve without applause. Along the way, we widen the lens to the “but God” pattern pulsing through Scripture—the wine gone at Cana, the empty baskets before thousands, the Red Sea at their backs, the tomb sealed shut—moments where human effort ends and mercy begins.
From there, we turn to love as first principle. Not sentiment, but a way of moving through the world when fear and rejection press in. We unpack how love makes the other virtues possible, why obedience isn’t wasted even when it’s refused, and how joy and humor are not escapes from pain but signs that healing is taking hold. The conversation is honest, warm, and unscripted—part testimony, part teaching, part family table. If you’ve ever felt defined by your worst day, or wondered where God is when the bottom falls out, this one is for you.
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