About Us

My name is John Schroeder. California born, and West Coast raised, I journeyed through abandonment, abuse, near-death experiences, and eventually an encounter with God Almighty. After years of drug abuse, military service, and concerts as a recording artist, I was called into ministry and a loving relationship with Jesus Christ.
** - First off... why "J Lynch"? During my time at Job Corps, where I completed high school and studied to be a chef, I played football. I was one of two or three white guys on the field. Due to my childhood and upbringing, I was ridiculously resilient and a little psychotic. The guys started calling me "Lynch" after the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and Denver Broncos player, also white... and psycho. Some called me "Lynch", others "John Lynch" as that was the NFL players' full name and my first name, and still, others called me "J Lynch"... because, I suppose, "John" was too long a name? LOL
** - Second off... why the sunglasses? I suffered a massive concussion in Iraq that permanently damaged my eyes. The sunglasses are much like a handicapped person's wheelchair or a blind person's guide stick. They allow me to function in life without constant pain and migraines.
              I was born in Gilroy, CA on August 4, 1982, to Cali Jean and Scott Schroeder. Not wanting children, my father literally ran away to Philadelphia, PA, leaving my mother to raise me and my two half-brothers, Paul and Joe. My mother tells me that I taught myself to read and write before kindergarten, apparently by tracing letters on whatever magazines, books, or newspapers I could get my hands on. By first grade, I was reading at a sophomore in college reading level. I repeatedly tested in the top 1-2% of the country.
               From the age of 6 to 15 ½, I lived with my dad and stepmom, Julie, as they jumped from place to place. In total, I attended 23 different schools as a child. I was gifted and diagnosed with ADHD, so I had behavior issues, and some schools refused to work with me. Other times, my dad got in too deep with the wrong people or lost his job. Sometimes, there was a job opportunity somewhere else, or family that he wanted to be closer to (usually a parasitical arrangement).
               My father was a 240-pound Golden-Glove boxer with a serious anger problem and a very short fuse. He and my stepmom were quite fond of pornography and basically all drugs, usually leaning more towards methamphetamines and alcohol. Marijuana was always available. At 12 years, my father decided that my medication was much better than any drugs he could find on the street, so he decided to try a little experiment. Threatening me with physical trauma, he forced me to smoke marijuana for the first time at age 12 (right around the same time I found his pornography collection). I enjoyed it greatly and inhaling it was very smooth, as opposed to the coughing fits I’d experience when I snuck one of my parents’ cigarettes. We immediately decided this new arrangement was beneficial for both of us, and so my father proceeded to get high on my medication, and he kept me supplied with ample marijuana to keep me somewhat sedated at all times.
               The physical abuse I endured during my time with my father was epic. In second grade, he found that spanking wasn't working, so he started punching me in the face. I guess I should mention I was the smallest kid among kids two years younger than myself. Also in second grade, my father woke one morning still drunk from the night before to find me in the living room sitting at the bookcase, perusing for my next book to read. He physically assaulted me the way a father would beat a man that had raped his daughter. He didn’t say a word, he just kicked me, punched me, and stomped on me until I stopped moving. Then he went back to bed. Being thrown into a wall by my throat, or taking heavy blows to various parts of my body was typical of my day-to-day life.
               At 15 ½, his marriage disintegrated, and blaming me, he sent me to California to live with my mother. She quickly stopped my medication, as it had stunted my growth. I was 4’11”, and my size was a contributing factor in me being picked on and beat up at school much of my life. I was very small, and showing no signs of entering adulthood.
              My brother, Joe, was an instructor at a local dojo, teaching Crazy Eagle Style American Kenpo Karate, one of the most brutal martial arts on the planet. Naturally, I gravitated towards him as a role model, and I began my training. My mother was quite supportive of her baby learning to defend himself and gaining some sorely needed confidence. Unfortunately, being so small and enduring so much trauma, I’d developed a large chip on my shoulder, and of course, there were years of rage stored up from the plethora of abuse I’d received at the hands of men throughout my life. This, combined with my newfound power and invincibility, created a bully. I would often use my new skills to hurt other bullies and pretty much anyone who thought they were tougher than me, often hurting them badly to my own delight, and often in the presence of others to prove a point and send a message to those around me that I was never to be messed with. If they were scared of me, that just meant I didn't have to worry about people trying to hurt me anymore. I felt safe.
               At 18, an unfortunate school error had left me shy on credits to graduate, and refusing to stop smoking weed in my mother’s house, she kicked me out and I found myself on the street. With nowhere to go, I stayed with a friend, and my very first night being homeless, he introduced me to meth. I was hooked instantly. With a new affinity for trying new drugs, I wandered from San Jose to San Francisco, and eventually Sacramento, living on the streets and befriending anyone I met who had access to drugs. I slept on cardboard in bushes, on bus stop benches, under bridges, in fields... you name it. I panhandled for food and cigarettes.
               There were two occasions when I was supposed to die, but I didn’t. In San Francisco, a notorious gang stole all my belongings. One of the gang members was a friend of mine, so he took me to their den to retrieve my things. Turns out he didn’t have quite as much clout as I’d hoped, and I ended up toe to toe with their whole gang (maybe 20 people?). I stood up to the biggest of them, toe to toe, and got hit by a guy behind me. I took three or four more shots from the guy to my left and the big dude in front of me. That was enough to summon the beast in me, and I dropped down into my fighting stance… ready. I just happened to look to my right as the leader, who was leaning up against a tree, lifted his shirt to show me the revolver he had tucked in his pants. I put my hands up and backed away slowly. Never had I heard of a person walking away from a conflict with them. They let me. I suppose I earned their respect with my willingness to fight all of them by myself. I guess we’ll never know. I didn’t ask. I counted my blessings and headed for McDonald’s to clean up my face. I remember my nose and lip were bleeding. I hopped a bus to the train station and panhandled until I could afford a train back home. I showed up at my parents' house empty-handed and humbled like never before.
               The other time was in Sacramento and was once again gang-related. Several gang members got a good ‘ole fashioned whoopin’ as I was super drunk and belligerent. My friends stood by watching. Good friends, huh? Well the next night, the gang came looking for me, three carloads deep. And guess who they brought with them? One of my friends! He was calling out my name as they looked around for me. Little did they know, I was behind the bushes watching. Most of them had guns, as they were sticking out of the tops of their pants, and some had them in their hands. I spent probably 20 minutes jumping over bushes, jumping through bushes (ouch!), and rolling under vehicles to avoid being spotted as they circled the area, up and down the streets and in and out of the parking lots where I was. Amazingly, they never saw me, and I escaped into a nearby field of tall grass where I laid on my stomach until they were gone.
               Just before I turned 20, I overdosed on crank and crack. A friend of mine had robbed a drug dealer. He scored a kilo of crack and crank and had them both on the table in his dining room when I arrived at his house. He told me that as long as I didn’t take any with me, I was free to consume as much as I liked. I sat at his table for 14 hours.
             The next day, I was expected to be at work four miles away at Tower Records. I walked. I almost made it, too. I got to the corner where I only needed to cross the street to get to where I was going. As I stood there at the stoplight, I realized something was wrong inside me, and I chose to enter the Lyon’s Restaurant on the corner there. I walked in and sat at the counter. The lady asked me what I’d like, and I told her that I would like an ambulance. She asked if I was serious, and I told her I was. I nearly died. In fact, the paramedic told me that if I had continued walking to Tower Records, instead of calling myself an ambulance as I did, I likely would have died in the Tower Records parking lot before I even got to the actual store… across the street.
               After I was released from the hospital, I made my way back to the hotel I was staying at with my boss and his wife. He was quite happy to see that I had survived and presented me with a gift to celebrate… more crack. It was at that precise moment that I realized this man was not my friend, and I was playing a very dangerous game that just may cost me my life. I packed my things, much to my boss’s confusion, and panhandled on the streets until I had enough for a Greyhound ticket to Reno.
               Once in Reno, being homeless lost its luster quickly, as the temperature was much lower, making it difficult and very uncomfortable to sleep outside. Seeking solace, I agreed to enter a Christ-based drug rehabilitation program in downtown Reno known as the Reno-Sparks Gospel Mission. They provided me with a bed, some possessions, and greatly appreciated food. I’d found my home for the foreseeable future, and poured my efforts into becoming sober and acting like the rest of these Christians I found myself surrounded by. I read the Bible, attended church EIGHT times a week, and even got some singing lessons and began singing with the choir. I didn't make it through the program. My attitude was really bad and I had no clue how to adult. They got tired of me around the eight-month mark. I relapsed into meth use as soon as I left. By God's grace, I quit for good a couple of weeks later. 
               After rehab, I tried to make my life work on my own terms, working various jobs and living in various apartments all over the country. In 2003, I attended Job Corps for a short time, half-heartedly pursuing a career as a chef. I managed to get my GED just before it all went up in smoke. I decided one night to attend a party at the nearby JC Penny's distribution center.  We'd heard several people had alcohol and were partying in an empty truck trailer behind the warehouse. On our way, we ran into my friend's girlfriend. She had passed out at the party and woke up with a guy raping her. She tried to get away and he beat her half to death. We went and found him. It was bad. At some point, he was being kicked in the face and ribs with my friends' steel-toe boots. I had to stop them from killing him. He almost died anyway. I was told he crawled through the sagebrush about an eighth of a mile to a nearby road, where a security officer found him. I was arrested three days later and charged. Facing two years in prison, God blessed me again. The judge asked me what happened. I was a bit dramatic but told the FEMALE judge what had happened that night. She called me a hero and said she didn't care what the DA wanted. "If there were more men like you, rape wouldn't happen. You're going home." I did go home that night, to my brother's house. I found out later that Job Corps had expelled me and once again I had no path.
My mom felt bad for me and offered me one year at her house to get on my feet. Back at my mother’s house in California, I found work painting with my brother, Joe, and was getting quite good at it, when one day I was confronted with the option to join the military. Apparently, I had taken the military battery test earlier in life and came very close to acing it. They were very interested and offered me a lot of money to sign my life away to them.
               My basic training was in “Relaxin’” Fort Jackson, South Carolina. A few weeks in, I was diagnosed with shin splints. Hairline fractures in both shins from my knees to my ankles grounded me for a few weeks, and I had to rehab my way back to pass my final physical tests and graduate basic training. Luckily, I could, and I moved on to Advanced Individual Training in Fort Lee, VA, where they taught me to do my job as a Petroleum Supply Specialist (92F).
               In AIT, I excelled, and even qualified to go Airborne, meaning that after AIT, I’d go to Fort Benning, GA, and learn to jump out of airplanes. Just before graduation, however, I was diagnosed with Acute Plantar Fasciitis in both feet. The muscle fibers in the bottoms of my feet would tear apart as I walked. Sometimes, it was excruciating, and I even remember one time getting stuck in the middle of a crosswalk, as I was physically unable to take another step. This led the Army to cancel my Airborne qualification. I couldn’t run and had to undergo extensive and torturous physical therapy for eight months to recover from that.
               At my duty station in Fort Stewart, GA, I made a life for myself drinking and buying everything I set my eyes on. I made friends, I threw parties, and I trained. Lots of training. Guns, fuel missions, weight-lifting, jiu-jitsu, kung fu, and more.
               One day, at a party I threw at my own place, I got wasted and began to berate everyone at my party one at a time, to my own delight. No one stepped up to me, as my reputation was well known… that is until I decided to drop a racial slur on one of my brothers. That incited incredible animosity towards me. I took a punch to the face before my roommate stepped in and physically picked me up and moved me to my bedroom. I fought this isolation and escaped out the window once before he decided to physically detain me in my room. He ended up kicking my shoulder out as I tried to get up off the floor. I suppose he thought I was going to attack him or something. He permanently separated my shoulder from my collarbone with one kick. It’s a good thing he did, because, as he was busy detaining me, my drunk buddy outside my room couldn’t get in to shoot me with the gun he’d gone to his room to retrieve. Party guests managed to calm all my friends down, and we all reconciled afterward, but the damage to my shoulder was done. Clearly all my fault.
               More rehab, and several months later, we began to prepare for Iraq. Just before we deployed, I received word that my father had passed away. I made my way to Sacramento, CA to take care of his affairs and find out exactly what happened, as no one could give me definitive answers. I was told by family that he had drunk himself to death, but I didn’t believe them. I’d visited him just months earlier, and he was sober. He’d finally undergone neck surgery to fix his neck, and had put away all his vices but smoking cigarettes. Crying, he apologized to me and asked me to forgive him for the years of abuse. We had a good relationship after that, and he told me often that he was proud of me and what I had become. So, yeah… I didn’t buy it. I ordered an autopsy done, arranged for military honors for him, even though he didn’t even make it through basic training in the Army. I later found out that he had gone next door for coffee with his friend, and then returned to his apartment where he had a heart attack and died on the floor. No traces of drugs or alcohol in his system.
               That was September 2007. I deployed on Halloween. Come to find out, the Army was supposed to give me at least three months to cope with the loss of my father before sending me off to Iraq. Apparently, the Army isn’t always worried about Army Regulations. I spent two weeks in Kuwait, learning rudimentary Arabic and Iraqi culture. We received some updates on our Anti-Terrorism training and outlined our mission in Iraq. Then we went in. It was awesome. We flew into Baghdad on a C130, and then took a chinook (two-propeller helicopter) to FOB Iskan in Southern Iraq next to the Euphrates River. Our Forward Operating Base was located next to the town of Iskanderiah in an area that had become infamous and named “The Triangle of Death”.
               A few months into my deployment, I was almost caught huffing canned air in a headquarters tent while on radio guard. I was asked about it and confessed. I stood before the Lt. Colonel and received three months of “hard labor” and was demoted from E-4 Specialist to E-3 Private First Class. I was told that my punishment was very light because I was honest and took responsibility for my actions. I spent the next three months working 20 hour days. I would wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to work as a fueler. When I got off work, I’d go eat dinner, and then report to Battalion headquarters to fill sandbags for several hours. I was re-promoted shortly after completing my hard labor because I "took my punishment like a man."
               Shortly afterward, in June, I decided that my job as a fueler was not providing me with the “G.I. Joe” experience I had anticipated in my tour of duty in a combat zone. I didn’t feel like a hero. I didn’t feel prestigious. This wasn’t true, of course, as my job was to drive a fuel truck through combat zones. Basically, it was a giant bomb, just begging to be hit with a rocket-propelled grenade or missile. That’s dangerous. I chose to join “Guntruck” and provide security for those fuel trucks, as well as water, ammunition, food, and personnel as they traveled through Iraq.
               My first job in guntruck was driver, so it was my job to learn how to drive a huge up-armored vehicle down dirt roads riddled with potholes (some of which were known to have bombs in them). It was challenging, as hitting any pothole was not just potentially a death sentence for everyone in my truck, but it also slammed the gunner around as he stuck out of the top of the truck. You can imagine that gunners were not happy when you hit a pothole. I also had to be mindful of things on the side of the road, like dead animals, garbage, or even TVs. Any of those things could be hiding explosives in them and could potentially kill everyone in my vehicle.
               One day, we received a mission to FOB Kelsey to resupply them with fuel, water, food, etc. We made our way to Company Headquarters to receive our mission brief. In our mission brief, we learned that the road we would be traveling down was incredibly dangerous, as there had been attacks on our convoys recently, and those attacks had all come in two stages. There was an initial explosion, disabling vehicles and leaving the convoy stuck on the road picking up the pieces and trying to save the lives of the soldiers hit by the blast. While this went on, a wave of insurgents would attack the convoy with RPG and gunfire. This news did not breed confidence in us.
               As we made our way to FOB Kelsey, we encountered an IED, or an Improvised Explosive Device (a homemade bomb on the road). Later, we would find out that the bomb was a pressure-plate IED. It was two strips of cardboard stretched across the road with wires glued to them and spacers between the wires to prevent them from touching. As a vehicle ran over the pressure plate, the wires would touch, which were connected to a clicker (you know, the kind that you would click with your thumb to count the number of people entering a room? It has numbers on it that increase incrementally as you click the button). The clicker would advance every time a set of tires ran over the pressure plate and was designed to detonate in the middle of the convoy, doing the most damage possible. Apparently, this bomb was geared up to detonate at my front tires. That would likely kill everyone in my truck.
               However, on this day, the truck in front of me was a fuel truck. The resulting detonation would have blown up the fuel truck and probably killed everyone in the entire convoy and all the people on the side of the road. God had different plans that day for us, as the fuel truck in front of me somehow had all four tires perfectly synched up at precisely the right moment, and the pressure plate got stuck in between the tread on all four tires simultaneously. The tires picked up the pressure plate off the road and the pressure plate made its way around a full revolution and was just about to hit the ground again when the pressure plate got too far away from the device and the wires detached. As the pressure plate hit the ground again and the fuel truck’s tires compressed the cardboard, the wires touched for the last time. The blasting cap blew, but the wires were no longer attached to the bomb.
               The resulting explosion was deafening, and blinding, but was all light and noise. No vehicles sustained any damage, and no one was hurt. We were all stunned, of course, and temporarily blinded, at least in my truck, and we immediately stopped. Every vehicle checked its occupants and reported no damage, but we were forced to stay put anyway, as protocol dictated that since something exploded, we had to secure the area long enough for the explosives guys to come out and investigate. Plenty of time for that second wave of attackers. We sat there for what seemed like hours… waiting to die. There is no defense from a rocket or missile, so we all sat there looking around, hoping we would spot them before they got close enough to hit us. It seemed like forever, but no one came to attack us.
               Many more things happened in Iraq that I don’t think they would appreciate me talking about, but I turned my life around and was awarded a Driver’s Badge for my many successful missions with no driving incidents. I was also awarded an Army Commendation Medal and an Army Achievement Medal. My gun truck unit was presented with an honorary plaque congratulating us on our 600+ successful mission in Iraq (I think that number was exaggerated), and we were done.
               I flew into Georgia a couple of days before Christmas after debriefing in Kuwait for another week. I’d been talking to a girl in Washington, and she agreed to meet me in Reno, NV when I flew in to visit my family and vacation. Kristina met up with my family, and my mom helped her to find something cute to wear she knew I’d like, and they all waited for me at the airport in Reno. I was totally surprised. My nieces and nephew even drew huge pictures and signs welcoming me home as a hero. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped out of the terminal.
               Being a typical guy, I was far more interested in this beautiful girl who had dressed up for me, and I wasted no time in whisking her away to begin my vacation. My family was largely unimportant to me, as they had very little to offer me that could trump this 19-year-old all-star soccer girl. I hugged them all, expressed my gratitude, and left them all with my new girlfriend in tow. We were married two weeks later.
               I took Kristina back with me to Georgia, and we got a place together in Hinesville, not far from the base. We furnished our new home and built a life together. Unfortunately for her, I was not interested in a wife so much as a cute girl to cook for me and have sex with me whenever I liked. Otherwise, I really preferred her to stay out of my way, giving me the room I needed to play video games and hang out with my friends. She just wanted to spend time with me, as she genuinely liked me, and I had promised her the world. That was the last thing I wanted, so I treated her with disdain, insulting her and degrading her on a regular basis. She was a trophy that I deserved because I was such an amazing war hero.
               Truth be told, I was no hero, and I don’t recall doing anything heroic on my combat tour, nor was I amazing. After all, I was caught using drugs and demoted. Arrogance is amazing, as no matter how many times a person screws up, they can still convince themselves that they are the coolest guy on the planet, and people should feel lucky that they get to be around them. That was me to a T.
               Not long after we were married, the Army informed me that they were going to let me go. I had sustained more injuries. I had carpal tunnel in both hands from fueling missions, degenerative arthritis in my left knee from jumping onto and off trucks, photosensitivity in my eyes from a concussion, and my wife and I were in a car accident where I sustained a great injury to my neck, leaving me with muscle spasms. Add to that my feet, which had fits from time to time, and my shoulder, which I’d reinjured in Iraq and in Reno, and the Army had had enough. I argued that there was nothing I could do at home, as they had trained me to be a killer, and that’s what I was good at (although I didn’t kill anyone, I could perform brain surgery with a 50-cal machine gun). They told me they would give me retirement and pay me every month for the rest of my life. I agreed immediately.
               Little did I know that my retirement would start off at $800 a month. Kristina and I made our way back to Reno, NV to stay with my family as we both looked for work. After several weeks, neither of us had found work, and Kristina had little reason to stick around and put up with my treatment of her. She told me she wanted to go visit her family in Washington for a couple of weeks. I agreed as I knew what it was like to miss my family. My cousin informed me a few days later that Kristina had no intention of coming back. I drove Kristina to the airport, kissed her, hugged her, and told her goodbye. I’m sure she wondered to herself why I chose to use those words. She broke the news to me a week later, and I told her I knew all along, and thus began the animosity. She had no reason to like me anyway. I had very few good qualities.
               I’d started rapping as a meth addict in Sacramento, CA, and my skills had evolved to the point where I was superior to most, and far above anyone in little Reno, NV. I decided to pursue a career as a rapper. I landed a job as a bouncer and started doing concerts in Reno and Sparks.
               Eventually, I was promoted to bartender, and I started taking classes at Truckee Meadows Community College in pursuit of a degree in Computer Information Technology. Unfortunately, I smoked weed constantly and was far more interested in girls and rapping than turning in assignments and keeping up with my homework, so I failed most of my classes. Soon after, I lost my job due to a corporate error, and depression hit me like a ton of bricks. I also found myself spending more and more time alone in my apartment, so I started going out once a month to drink and engage other humans.
               One night, as I drank and talked with people at a bar in South Reno, the couple I was hanging out with decided to leave and told me they would give me a ride home. After getting into their truck, I realized that they were also drunk, and I stopped the guy from starting the truck. This made the couple very mad. I welcomed him to attack me, as that would make me very happy, but he instead decided to go back to the bar. He told the bartender what was happening, and all three of them came outside to confront me. I began yelling at the three of them, the couple for attempting to drive drunk, and the bartender for serving me far too much alcohol.
I was so busy yelling that I didn’t notice the Washoe County Sheriff attempting to get my attention from behind me. When he realized that I was not responding, he tackled me. That proved to be a very foolish decision, as I immediately rolled onto my back, pulled him into my guard, and headbutt him in the face. It was about that time that I realized he was a police officer. Then I blacked out.
                Several days later in court, I was told that the D.A. wanted me to do at least two years in prison, but as I had chosen to represent myself, the judge decided to ask me why I was at that bar, and what happened. I explained about being alone all the time in my apartment, and my attempts to combat it. I told him about the couple and the bartender. I didn’t know that I had hurt anyone. The judge gave me those details, much to my surprise. He decided that it would be better for me to be on probation with U.S. Marshalls and ordered me to go to the local VA hospital to undergo a mental health evaluation. I was diagnosed with PTSD, Major Depression Disorder, and Combat Adjustment Disorder. I completed my one-year probation with the U.S. Marshals, and that was the end of it.
                 I couldn’t find work, so I lost my apartment and moved in with my late grandma’s boyfriend, Peter, in Cold Springs. I worked for him here and there, and he paid me very well. I also began an affair with his secretary, who was married at the time and working up the nerve to serve her husband with divorce papers. I spent most of my time smoking synthetic marijuana, playing video games, and making music. I did some more concerts, and my popularity was growing exponentially.
                 After a few months, I moved out of Peter’s house, and I moved in with my parents just outside of Sparks, NV. They let me put my newly purchased travel trailer in the driveway in their backyard. My music gained so much attention, that I was given the opportunity to headline with biggest hip-hop party of the year, ‘A Nightmare on 4th Street’, a massive Halloween party at a hip-hop club known as the Underground. I had four concerts booked. I was getting attention from girls. I completed my probation. I had a girlfriend. I was happy.
                One day, as I lay in my trailer, my girlfriend just driving away from my parent’s house, God spoke to me. Now, when I say that God spoke to me, in this one instance, I really mean that he verbally spoke words I could hear with my ears. He spoke only two words: “It’s time.” It shook my trailer. It shook my bones. I knew what He meant immediately.
My whole life, I was convinced that I was a Christian. Although I had no interest in anyone talking to me about Jesus, I did grow up going to church, and my dad and stepmom told me that they were Christians. My grandparents were Christians. I was even baptized when I was 16! I believed that Jesus was God’s Son, and He died on the cross. I believed that He rose from the dead and went back to heaven. I believed all of that. Of course, no one could tell by the way I spoke or acted, but I was nonetheless convinced in my heart that I was fine, and saved.
Within two days, I canceled all my concerts but the one coming up in a few days (too many people were invested in my being there). I pulled all my music off the internet, deleted my Facebook, and threw away my entire CD collection of Eminem, Lil’ Wayne, etc. I got myself a Bible and started going to church. After reviewing the evidence available to us humans, I confessed with my mouth and believed in my heart that Jesus was who He said He was in the Bible. I surrendered my life to Him and asked Him into my heart to be my Lord (master). That's when I was born again and God began to transform me and make me new.
I've been saved for 11 years now, and I am married and in love with my best friend, Crystal, and we have three children. We still live in Reno, NV and are currently in a mobile home in Cold Springs until May 2025, as that is the best I can do with my disability/retirement. Uncle John will tear this place down and we will be off to begin our mission in our 31' travel trailer. My wife worked also until the education system became corrupted, so now she stays home with the kids and homeschools. My wife and I do our best to share the Gospel with people and help them understand God and the Bible. This website is the culmination of ten years of work finally coming together. Jesus will return to take His church any day now, but there are SO many people who are lost and broken out there. We are committed to reaching as many of them as we can while we are still here.