It was my second year, first semester. My father—the towering guardian of Saint Paul Presbyterian Church—breathed his last on April 1, 2001. The man who had dedicated me to God was suddenly standing before God Himself. The pulpit he once filled grew silent. The church was handed over to the Presbytery, and I was left standing at the funeral, drowning in grief and confusion. But here is the miracle: out of those ashes, God forged a servant. By His unfathomable grace, I graduated not just with passing marks—but with First Position across the board. The reluctant boy became the gold medalist. A year of fieldwork sharpened me, and soon, ordination came. And today—hold this irony—I am the guardian of that very same Saint Paul Presbyterian Church. The same platform my father once stood on, I now stand upon. The shoe I refused to wear now fits perfectly, because He broke my stubborn feet with kindness.
Beyond that, I have had the privilege of shaping a generation. Countless young men and women have passed through my teaching in various seminaries and Bible colleges. Today, my team and I are not just sitting in a building—we are on the move, doing multiple ministries, reaching the unreached. I have a team that doesn’t know how to quit. They are fire, they are passion, they are sacrifice. I am deeply grateful for every single one of them. If there is one thing I have learned: God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called. And so, I end where I began—not with a demand, but with a humble, broken request from the depths of my heart: