“The Call That Changed Everything”
Introduction
There are moments in life when time seems to pause, when everything you’ve ever known stands still at the threshold of something sacred. For me, that moment didn’t arrive with fanfare or flashing lights. It came quietly—like a whisper that moved through the chambers of my soul. A whisper that would eventually become the unshakable call of God on my life.
I was not born into privilege. I did not come from a long line of theologians or spiritual giants. I came from working hands, kind hearts, and humble beginnings. My mother, Lucinda Frank Jack, fed generations with her hands and her heart as the Head Cook for Headstart. My father, Freddie Jack, a diesel and gas mechanic, taught me that integrity is more than a word—it’s a legacy. From them, I inherited the values that would carry me far beyond what any classroom or pulpit ever could: honesty, kindness, consistency, and an unwavering work ethic.
But it was not until years later, in the stillness of my spirit, that I would recognize that God had been shaping me all along.
In May of 1983, I stepped into a path that would not only change my life, but redefine my identity. Preaching was not merely an act of obedience—it was the unlocking of a spiritual inheritance I didn’t even know I carried. It was as though God reached into the depths of my being and said, “Now, son. Now is the time.”
I didn’t step into the ministry with grandeur in mind. I did it with trembling hands and a willing heart. My calling wasn’t about leading thousands—it was about loving one soul at a time. I didn’t envision building sanctuaries or leading communities—I simply wanted to be faithful to the voice that called me.
The early days were uncertain. There were no roadmaps, no guarantees. Yet, what I did have was faith—the kind of faith that makes no sense to the world. The kind that compels you to leave behind a stable job in the plant system and walk into the unknown, trusting that if God called you, He would also carry you. And He did. Every single time.
There were nights I stayed up praying, not for crowds or recognition, but for God’s direction. I wrestled with doubt, with responsibility, with the weight of shepherding souls. But time and again, I saw His hand move—subtly, powerfully, undeniably. Whether it was in the healing of my wife during her difficult pregnancy, the spiritual growth of our congregation, or the rebuilding of churches burned to the ground, I witnessed a God who shows up not just in miracles, but in moments—quiet moments of obedience and trust.
Phase 1 : Humble Beginnings and Family Foundations
“Born from Grace, Built by Love”
I was not born into privilege. But I was born into purpose. I came into this world surrounded not by opulence, but by love—real, tangible, working-class love. The kind that wakes up before the sun, ties aprons and laces up work boots, and gives without ever asking for anything in return.
My mother, Lucinda Frank Jack, was a woman of remarkable spirit. She was the head cook for Headstart, but far more than that, she was the heart of our home and the foundation of our values. I remember watching her pour not only ingredients into pots but compassion into people. She didn’t just prepare meals—she served dignity. She fed children whose homes may not have known structure, and she did it with a grace that only a woman rooted in love and humility could possess.
My father, Freddie Jack, was a diesel and gas mechanic, and a man of few words but enormous integrity. He didn’t need to preach sermons—his life was one. He taught me through calloused hands and sweat-soaked shirts that hard work is honorable, that being a man isn’t about what you say but what you consistently do, and that there is power in standing tall even when the world makes you feel small. He wasn’t loud, but his presence echoed. His silence had weight, and in that silence, I learned to listen—not just to words, but to the lessons between them.
Growing up, we didn’t have much in terms of material things. But I had parents who believed in me, believed in God, and believed in the value of doing right by people. That was worth more than any inheritance of wealth. We were taught that every human being deserves kindness, and that faith without action is hollow.
I was a curious child. Not rebellious, but reflective. I’d sit on porches and stare at the sky, wondering what my place in the world was. I wasn’t the loudest in the room, but I observed everything. My mother once told me, “Boy, God gave you quiet eyes. You see what most folks miss.” I didn’t know what she meant then, but I’ve come to realize that she saw something I didn’t yet see in myself—a shepherd’s heart forming in silence.
Those early years were filled with moments that seemed ordinary but, in hindsight, were divine building blocks. Walking to church hand in hand with my parents. Watching my mother pray softly in the kitchen. Hearing my father sigh after a long day, satisfied not because life was easy, but because he knew he had done the best he could. These things shaped me.
Phase 2 : Answering the Call to Ministry
“When the Voice of God Becomes Louder than Fear”
I didn’t plan on being a pastor. In fact, for a good while, I ran from the very idea. Not out of rebellion, but out of a sense of unworthiness. I knew what kind of responsibility came with standing before people in the name of God. I had seen real leadership, honest faith, and humble love in the lives of my parents. And I thought to myself, Who am I to carry something so sacred?
But when God calls you—He doesn’t call you because you’re ready. He calls you because you’re willing. And in May of 1983, I found myself saying yes to something far bigger than I could ever comprehend.
It wasn’t a thunderclap or a burning bush. It wasn’t angels descending or visions in the sky. No—it was quiet. Still. It was a fire kindled in my chest that wouldn’t go out. I began to feel this unrelenting pull toward something higher, something more eternal than the day-to-day rhythm of work and life.
I would listen to sermons with new ears. Scriptures I had heard all my life suddenly unfolded with fresh depth. I couldn’t shake the feeling that God was telling me, “It’s time.”
And so, with trembling hands and a faithful heart, I stepped into ministry. My first sermon wasn’t perfect—far from it. But it was real. It came from a place of deep surrender. I remember standing there, Bible open, heart racing, and thinking: Lord, You really chose me for this? I wasn’t eloquent. I wasn’t polished. But I was obedient. And in that obedience, I found power I never knew I had.
Preaching wasn’t just speaking—it became the very air breathed. It wasn’t to impress; it was to reach. To heal. To warn. To comfort. And most importantly, to let people know that God still speaks, still saves, and still sees us, even when the world overlooks us.
But answering the call didn’t mean everything fell into place instantly. There were doubts. There were questions. There were days that felt like Moses at the burning call—slow of speech, asking God to send someone else—even while the pull toward purpose kept growing. Holding a stable plant job for the family made the tension sharper, as conviction nudged step by step from where life was to where life was meant to be.
Phase 3 : Walking Away from Security – A Leap of Faith
“Walking by Faith, Not by Sight”
I still remember the hum of the machines at the plant. The predictable rhythm of the workday. The comfort of knowing, every two weeks, that a check would be deposited and bills would be paid. There was stability in it. Structure. Safety. And for a man with a family to feed and responsibilities to carry, that kind of security was no small thing.
But while my hands worked on the floor of that plant, my heart was elsewhere.
Something had begun to shift in me—not overnight, but steadily. A gentle unrest, a spiritual stirring that refused to be silenced. As I grew more immersed in preaching and ministering, the time I spent at the plant felt more and more like a shadow of the life I was supposed to be living. I would come home late from work, exhausted in body, but unable to ignore the fire in my spirit. I knew I wasn’t meant to stay where I was. God had placed a weight on my shoulders that I could no longer carry part-time.
Still, the decision to leave was not easy.
I prayed. I questioned. I calculated. I asked God, “Are you sure? Right now?” I thought about my wife. I thought about my children. I thought about how many men would trade places with me just for the stability I had.
But faith isn’t about logic—it’s about trust. And deep down, I knew that God wasn’t asking me for a plan—He was asking me for a yes.
It’s a terrifying thing to walk away from a paycheck, from routine, from the approval of those around you who say, “Are you crazy?” But I’ve learned that every great move of God begins with obedience that doesn’t make sense.
So I did it. I left the plant. I walked into full-time ministry with no promise of income, no contract, and no backup plan. All I had was the belief that if God called me, He would also keep me.
I won’t sugarcoat it—those first few months were filled with tests. There were bills that didn’t care about my calling. There were days when I wondered if I had misheard God. I remember looking at my wife, the rock of our household, and thinking, Lord, don’t let me fail her. But every single time we had a need, God provided. Not always in the way I expected, but always in the way we needed. He would use people, unexpected blessings, and divine appointments to remind me: “I’ve got you.
My wife never wavered. Her strength through that season was a sermon in itself. She supported me not just with words, but with unwavering belief in what God had placed on my life. We walked that faith journey together—not as pastor and pastor’s wife, but as two believers trusting a faithful God.