Nigel’s Story

I was born on April 24, 1979, in Elizabeth, South Australia.

During the recession years of the 1980s, my parents, two sisters, and I traveled across Australia – Perth, Darwin, up and down the Queensland coast – chasing any whisper of work that’s where we went.

In 1985–86, we lived in Gladstone for about two years. While there, I became close with some kids who lived around the corner. I’d visit their house most afternoons after school, on weekends, and during holidays. If the kids weren’t home, their mother would still invite me in. Her walls were covered in scripture posters. She’d take me by the hand, read them aloud, and help me memorize and recite them.

I don’t remember many of those verses, but John 3:16 stuck with me. One day, she led me through the sinner’s prayer. That was my first real introduction to God and Jesus.

A few days later, I had a dream.

In the dream, I was riding my bike, full of joy. I saw my sister ahead and rode around her. Further up the road, I saw a man – seven or eight feet tall, dark hair, long beard, wearing a full-brimmed black hat. He looked like The Undertaker from WWE. He made me nervous. I turned back to warn my sister, but she was gone. I looked again – he had vanished. Then I looked down, and my bike was gone. I woke up screaming.

That dream was a warning of how my life would unfold. My sister represented family. The bike – my childhood. The Undertaker – the enemy.

In 1989, we moved to Brisbane and settled there. It didn’t take long for my world to unravel.

A series of events hit me hard, and as a young boy, I didn’t know how to cope. I started shoplifting, skipping school, smoking cigarettes, and getting into trouble with the law.

One night, after the police brought me home for running away, Mum and Dad sat me down at the kitchen table. They told me that if I ran away again, I should keep running – because the door would be closed to me. I called their bluff and left after an argument with my father.

I stayed with a friend for a week and a half until his parents got tired of me and brought me home. I overheard my mum telling his mum, “We told him if he ran away again, don’t bring him back. Take him to the police station. They can deal with him.”

That was the night before my twelfth birthday. My birthday present to myself was a packet of Winfield Reds and a bottle of Coke, sitting alone in an emergency caretaker house.

That moment marked the beginning of seven chaotic years. Drug and alcohol abuse, violence, crime, youth detention, hostels. Everything.

By 19, my will to survive had been stripped away.

I received a copy of my birth certificate and noticed some dates didn’t add up. I took it to my parents, and they confirmed I was adopted. That shattered me. Any sense of self-preservation vanished. In my heart, both family and God had abandoned me. I wanted nothing to do with either. The next two years were a blur.

In 2001, I was sitting outside Oz care in South Brisbane when a bus pulled up. A guy jumped out and asked if I wanted to go to church. There’d be food, music, and preaching. I had nothing else to do, so I went.

The pastor spoke about the prodigal son and how the father was waiting for him to come home. That message pierced my heart. I went up front and received Jesus as my Savior.

I looked around that church and thought all the bad was behind me. I believed it would be clear skies and sunny days from then on. I was sorely mistaken.

Life became a rollercoaster. Hills and valleys, good times and tough ones. Because I hadn’t learned how to deal with my issues, they kept resurfacing and knocking me down.

On New Year’s Eve 2023, through a friend and by the miracle of God, I found my birth family. It started beautifully but collapsed by April.

Suicidal and out of my mind, I sat on my bed one night, crying and screaming out to God. I told Him I was tired. I wanted to come home. I’d had enough of this world.

But God, in His mercy and grace, reached down and touched me that night.

The beautiful thing is that when I came to the end of myself, I finally gave God room to move in my life.

He reminded me of Bobby and Branwen Mearns from a church we’d attended years ago and told me to contact them.

Now, fifteen months later, I’m still here. And God has been blessing me abundantly.

My life is no longer my own – it belongs to Jesus Christ. His blood paid for my sins, and that’s the reason I’m still alive today.

I’m looking forward to the next chapter – the victorious life Jesus promised if I stay rooted in Him.

Dead to self, alive in Christ. Started Bible college in July, and from there, the sky’s the limit.

The difference between the man born again in 2001 and the man reborn in 2025 is this: I now know who I am in Christ and who I am without Him.

Blood-washed. Born again. Spirit-filled.

And the mighty name is Jesus. Amen.