Forgotten Prayer: The Echoes of a Broken Beat
- Gods Biscuits Official
- Jul 18
- 36 min read
Updated: Aug 7
My name is Anthony. I’m 37 years old now, a living testament forged from crucible-hot pain and whispered secrets, embossed not just in flesh and bone, but in the very topography of my soul. A solitary diamond gleams, etched forever under my eye – a crystallized tear, a stark monument to agony endured. My hands, my arms, indeed my entire being, are a vibrant tapestry of ink, each tattoo a haunting relic from a past I am ferociously dismantling. Sometimes, I catch the flickers of judgment in stranger’s eyes, a familiar, searing brand. Yet, I strive to anchor myself in who I am becoming, not the ruin I once was. My pursuit is no longer the fleeting allure of fleeting fortune or hollow fame. My very breath, my every beat, is now dedicated to Dad.
When I speak of Dad, I speak of God the Father. This intimacy, this profound connection, is a sacred, nascent gift. For the vast majority of my journey, He was an abstract concept, a distant, unyielding judge, or worse, a mere phantom of wishful thinking. Now, He is the very oxygen in my lungs, the balm that soothes my perpetual ache, the unseen hand that plucked me from the precipice of my own undoing. He stepped into the raging inferno of my life, a consuming blaze I’d stoked for years, and snatched me from the jaws of oblivion. And Jesus? Jesus is my eternal Keeper, the unbreachable fortress around my fragile heart, a dramatic outcome sculpted from an incredibly dark odyssey that began with a blood-chilling pact with the Adversary. This, then, is the raw, unvarnished testimony of an addict, a musician, and a soul reborn.
