From Filth to Freedom: The Day Jesus Pulled Me Out of My Own Grave

Psalms 69:14

“Rescue me from the mire and do not let me sink; deliver me from those who hate me, and out of the deep waters.”

I was filthy too.

I remember waking up one morning and looking around the room I had been surviving in. Not living, but surviving. The unfinished bathroom I had demoed almost three years earlier sat there like a mirror of my life; broken, unusable, destroyed. Just like me. The drywall was ripped open, the floor half torn up, the tub sitting in the middle of the floor, tools scattered everywhere like abandoned promises. I used to tell myself I’d finish it “when life calms down,” but life never calmed down. I was the storm. I was the chaos. I was the destruction.

I rolled over and looked at the man I thought I loved. The man I thought loved me back. His face was peaceful in sleep, but mine, mine was hollow. I remember standing in front of the mirror that morning, staring at a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I was maybe 90 pounds. Skin and bones. Eyes sunken. Cheekbones sharp. A walking skeleton. I asked him, “Why didn’t you tell me I look sick? Why didn’t you tell me I look like I’m dying?” He shrugged. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was too lost in his own darkness to see mine.

I didn’t eat much. My stomach was always in knots. And I drank a lot. I partied more than I should have. The bar was a frequent stop because I worked there, so it was easy to “stay for a beer”. I smoked weed the second my eyes opened until the moment I went to bed because I couldn’t face a single hour sober. I didn’t care. I wasn’t trying to live. I was just trying to make it through another day without falling apart.

I kept telling myself that if I didn’t upset him, if I didn’t question him, if I let him drink whenever he wanted, and if I stayed quiet. We would make it. We were “in love,” right? Because trauma bonding feels like love when you’ve never known the real thing.

But the truth was, he was drowning in alcoholism, and I was drowning in my own sin. I was too blind, too broken, too lost to see any of it.

Then the thoughts started hitting me like a tidal wave.

I was disgusting. I had been with more men than I could remember. I bounced from guy to guy. I was incapable of being alone. Maybe I was scared of it. Maybe I was addicted to attention. Maybe I was trying to fill a hole in my soul that only Jesus could fill, but I didn’t know that yet.

I had put myself in situations that could have gotten me killed. I didn’t even care. I was angry at the world, angry at myself, angry at life. I hurt people. A lot of people. Especially the ones I cared about the most. I was a horrible friend. I didn’t know how to keep a friendship or any kind of healthy relationship alive. Honestly, I didn’t want to. I was scared of being hurt, so I did the hurting first.

I was a master at lying. I lied so much that my entire life became a lie. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I couldn’t tell where the real me ended and the fake me began. I was a shell. A ghost. A body walking around with no soul inside.

And then came the worst thought of all: What kind of mother am I? If my girls ever became the woman I was. I would never survive it.

My mom used to tell me, “Sammy, you’re here, but you’re not here. You look right through me. You’re lost.” And she was right. I was physically present but spiritually dead. Breathing but not alive.

The enemy’s voice was loud in those days: “You’re gross.” “You’re worthless.” “You’ll never get out of this pit.” “No one wants you.” “You’ve always been nothing and you always will be.”

And I believed every word.

I got out of bed and walked past my girls’ rooms. I loved them so much. They were my pride and joy. That’s when it hit me. Hard.

Something had to change. Not for a man. Not for my mom. Not for anyone else. For them. For me.

But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even believe I deserved a way out. I thought I had ruined my life beyond repair. I thought God had turned His face from me. I thought I was too dirty to ever be clean again.

Then I remembered a coworker who kept inviting me to her church. I had dodged her for months. I’d make excuses, pretend I was busy, laugh it off. But that day, I thought, Fine. I’ll try. Even though Jesus is probably ashamed of me too.

May 1st, 2022.

I pulled into the parking lot and thought, what in the world am I doing here? This is stupid. My friend met me at the door with her big smile, the kind that annoyed me because I didn’t understand joy anymore. Joy felt fake. Joy felt impossible.

Inside, everyone looked so happy. So clean. So perfect. And I felt FILTHY. Like I didn’t belong in the same room as people who looked like they had never sinned a day in their lives. I felt like if they knew who I was, they’d escort me out the back door and tell me never to come back.

Then the pastor walked out. He was bald, tattooed, buff, funny, and I remember thinking, what kind of church is this? I didn’t hear a word of the sermon. I didn’t care. My mind was too loud. My shame was too loud.

But then I saw the water tank. Something in me shifted.

People started getting baptized one by one, and I kept thinking, “Yeah, their sin must not be as bad as mine.” I watched them come up out of the water smiling, crying, glowing. And I thought, Good for them. But that could never be me.

Then the pastor said, “If you feel Jesus calling on your heart today, come forward.”

That’s when something crazy happened.

My heart started pounding. My whole body trembled. Tears filled my eyes. And I felt two heavy, but soft hands on my shoulders pushing me toward the door.

“You are the closest you have ever been to NEW LIFE.”

I couldn’t stop walking. I was being carried.

The lady kept asking me questions, but all I could say was my name and that I was scared. They prayed over me and I just kept thinking, If they knew who I really was, they’d stop.

Then I walked out in front of the whole church. One of the pastors helped me into the water. I was shaking, crying, terrified.

“Sammy, are you ready to give your life to Jesus today?”

Before I could even think, the word YES came out of my mouth like it wasn’t even mine.

When I went under that water, I saw every bit of filth, every lie, every sin, every wound. Every man. Every bottle. Every night I cried myself to sleep. Every moment I hated myself. Every time I hurt someone. Every time I chose sin over sanity.

When I came up, it was GONE.

The room looked brighter. The people looked brighter. My heart felt clean, cleaner than it had ever felt in my entire life.

I walked out of that church different. Confused. Shaken. Loved.

Why me? Why would God choose someone like me? Someone so filthy? Someone so broken?

I didn’t know. But that day started my journey of learning who Jesus really is.

Let me tell you, I didn’t change overnight. I still messed up. I still hurt people. I still sinned. I still had nights where the old me tried to crawl back out of the grave.

But there was a difference. I didn’t sit in my filth anymore. I didn’t stay in the pit. I brought it to Jesus. Every time.

He kept cleaning me. Healing me. Changing me.

Four years later, I’m still a sinner. But I’m a sinner saved by grace. A sinner who knows where to run. A sinner who knows she’s loved. A sinner who knows she’s not who she used to be.

Let me tell you something. If He did it for me, in all my nasty filth. He can do it for you too.

I am living proof that no one is too far gone. Not even you.

A Prayer for the Woman Who Feels Filthy, Lost, and Unworthy

Jesus, I lift up the woman reading this right now. The one who feels like she’s drowning in her own mistakes. The one who feels disgusting, ashamed, unlovable, and too far gone. The one who thinks You could never want someone like her.

God, meet her in the middle of her mess. Sit with her in the dark places she’s been hiding. Touch the parts of her heart she’s convinced are beyond repair. Remind her that You don’t run from filth, You wash it. You don’t run from sin, You break it. You don’t run from brokenness, You rebuild it.

Jesus, whisper to her the way You whispered to me: “You are the closest you have ever been to new life.” Let her feel Your presence right now. Heavy, warm, undeniable. Let her know she is seen. She is wanted. She is loved. She is chosen.

Give her the courage to take the first step toward You. To walk out of the grave she’s been living in. To believe that she is not too dirty, not too broken, not too late.

Jesus, wash her. Heal her. Restore her. Make her new.

In Your Holy Name,

Amen

I Hope This Hits Your Heart

If you’re reading this and something inside you is stirring. That pounding in your chest, that lump in your throat, that ache you can’t explain, that’s not guilt. That’s not fear. That’s not coincidence.

That’s Jesus.

That’s the same voice that pulled me out of my deepest waters. The same voice that told me I wasn’t too far gone. The same voice that washed me clean when I thought I was unfixable.

You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t have to know what to pray. You don’t have to understand everything about God.

You just have to take one step.

If you’re ready. Even a little bit, I encourage you to pray the prayer above. Whisper His name. Cry out for Him. Or sit in silence and let Him meet you there.

Just don’t stay where you are. You were made for more than this pit. You were made for freedom. You were made for new life.

And Jesus is right there, reaching for you