from the worst sinner to the worst saint

From the Worst Sinner to the Worst Saint:

the Narrow Road to Rest

A REDEMPTION STORY

Prologue

The Narrow Road to Rest

Most people hear “the narrow road” and think of restriction—tight boundaries, moral rigor, a path of difficulty and discipline. But the narrow road I’ve come to know is something entirely different. It’s not narrow because of rules. It’s narrow because of trust.

It’s the road where self-sufficiency has no room to breathe. Where striving falls away. Where the only way forward is to walk by the Spirit, step by step, breath by breath.

This is the story of how I came to walk that road.

It begins in the depths of sin, moves through the exhausting climb of religious striving, and leads into the liberating rest of grace. It’s a story of loss and redemption, of weakness and joy, of learning to live not by performance, but by presence.

Along the way, the Lord gave me a dream—a vivid picture of what this road looks like. I’ll share it with you later. But for now, know this: the narrow road is not the path of the strong. It’s the path of the surrendered. And at the top of that road, there is joy—unspeakable, breathtaking joy.

This is the journey from the worst sinner to the worst saint. And this is the road to rest.

Introduction

Whispers in the Dark

I knew Him as a child. Not in the way that theologians speak of knowing, but in the soft, bedtime way—through whispered prayers and the gentle voice of my mother. Every night, she would sit beside us and pray: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray dear Lord, my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray dear Lord, my soul to take."

It was a simple prayer, but it carried weight. It wrapped around me like a blanket, warm and familiar. In those moments, I felt safe. I felt seen. I didn’t understand the depth of it then, but I knew there was Someone watching over me. That was the beginning. Before the wandering. Before the world pulled me into its arms and whispered its own promises.

Before I became what I now call “the worst of sinners.” My mum and I were close when I was a child. She was my safe place—gentle, nurturing, and present. I felt held by her love, and in those early years, I never doubted that I was cared for.

But something shifted when I turned thirteen. It was subtle at first, then unmistakable. My mum began to change. We met new people, and she started spending time with them—the partying and surrounding herself with a younger crowd, staying out late and neglecting her marriage. It was a season of transition for her, but for me, it was the beginning of a quiet unraveling.

I had just started high school, a time when I needed her most. Instead of support, I felt invisible. My emotional needs were no longer met with the same tenderness. My parents moved us to a larger property and bought me a horse—an act of care, no doubt—but it couldn’t fill the growing void inside me. I began to suffer in silence. The ache of abandonment, the confusion of adolescence, and the loss of my anchor led me to seek comfort in the only way I knew how.

I developed bulimia. It became my secret solace, the only thing that felt like control in a world that had spun off its axis. My family didn’t understand. And in their confusion, my pain became proof of my brokenness. I was labeled the problem—the mentally ill one, the scapegoat. The family’s struggles were laid at my feet, and I carried a weight I didn’t know how to put down.

Years later, I had a dream that captured the essence of those years. In it, I was back at our horse property, standing in the kitchen with my mum. We were arguing, and she was smashing something in frustration. I cried out, “I don’t understand why you just can’t be my mum.” Then I ran outside, desperate to find my dad, only to fall to my knees in anguish, knowing he wasn’t there for me either. I woke up sobbing, the kind of sobbing that comes from the deepest places.

That dream gave me clarity. I never questioned my struggle again. I understood. The years that followed my adolescence were marked by a quiet search for something I couldn’t name—something I had lost. I didn’t know how to ask for help, or even what help I needed. I only knew I felt hollow, unseen, and desperate to be understood.

I remember sitting with a boyfriend once, looking out over the ocean. He turned to me and asked, “What are you thinking about?” It was such a simple question, but it startled me. No one had ever asked me that before. I didn’t know how to answer. That moment stayed with me—it revealed how disconnected I had become from my own inner world.

Eventually, I found myself in the arms of someone who felt more like a friend than a romantic partner. His mother was kind to me—she took me shopping, listened to me, and made me feel like I mattered. That sense of nurture was something I had been craving. The relationship moved quickly, and when he asked me to marry him, I remember my heart saying no. But I didn’t have the strength to walk away.

We had two beautiful children together, and I would do it all over again to have them, and for them, I am forever grateful.

They, along with my current husband and our child together, are my world.

But the marriage itself was quietly wounding. Emotional abuse was woven into the fabric of our life together, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. It felt normal to me—familiar, even.

After four years of marriage, I ended up falling for the man I worked for. I remember the first time I saw him—it was as if he was cast in gold. The attraction was immediate and intense, and I didn’t understand it. But in him, I found comfort, attention, and a sense of being wanted.

We became the worst of sinners, seeking solace in each other’s arms, trying to fill the voids we carried.

We were both in turmoil.

The man I had fallen for was also in a difficult marriage, and in each other, we found something we had been starved of: understanding.

I could speak to him without fear of judgment, without the weight of my pain being used against me.

For the first time, I felt heard and listened to.

We came from similar worlds—both carrying wounds, both longing for connection, both trying to survive in the only ways we knew how. It wasn’t just about attraction.

It was about being seen.

Being known.

Being safe.

But in seeking comfort, we became the worst of sinners.

We crossed lines we never imagined we would, and in doing so, we tried to fill the aching voids in our hearts with something that could never satisfy.

What began as solace became sin.

And yet, even in that darkness, God was not absent.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Preparing to call me back.

After about a year together, despite the deep love we shared, a heavy sense of shame settled over us. We knew what we had done had consequences far beyond ourselves. Families were impacted. Trust was broken. And the guilt was suffocating.

I fell into a darkness I had never known before. It was like being in the pit of hell—utterly lost, unable to climb out, no matter what I tried. Depression wrapped itself around me like chains, and I couldn’t see a way forward. I was drowning in regret, in sorrow, in the weight of my own choices.

And then, from the most unlikely of places, a hand reached in. It didn’t come with thunder or lightning. It came quietly, gently—like a whisper in the storm. It was the beginning of something I couldn’t yet name. But it was real. And it was Him.

Chapter 1

The Invitation Back

It had been years since I had thought about Jesus.

The last time I remember speaking to Him, I was seventeen. I had whispered, “I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t walk the narrow path.” I guess I misunderstood what walking the narrow path meant at that time.

And with that, I turned away—carrying the weight of my pain, my confusion, and my unmet needs into the world, hoping to find something that would make me whole. But God never stopped watching.

My sister was living with us at the time. She began talking to me about Jesus again—softly, without pressure, just little conversations that stirred something long buried. At first, I brushed it off. But her words lingered. They reached into places I had sealed off, places I thought were too far gone.

And slowly, something began to shift. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a lightning bolt moment. It was more like a gentle breeze, a quiet invitation back into the heart of Christ. I didn’t know it then, but the search had begun—the search that would lead me not just back to Him, but into a rest I had never known.

It’s funny, really.

My sister wasn’t walking with Christ in the way most Christians would describe it.

Her life didn’t fit the mold.

But that’s what makes it so extraordinary—how God can use the most unlikely people to reach us exactly where we are. Her words weren’t polished sermons or theological debates. They were simple, sincere reminders of Jesus.

And somehow, they pierced through the fog I had been living in.

They stirred memories of a faith I had once known, of a Savior I had once spoken to as a teenager when I said, “I just can’t do it anymore.” But now, something was different. I wasn’t being pushed—I was being invited. And that invitation led me back into the heart of Christ, in a way... In parallel to my sister’s gentle nudging, God was orchestrating something else. God wasn’t just working through my sister. He was weaving together a tapestry of grace through the people around me.

One of our friends was on his own journey—finding his way out of Catholicism and into a personal relationship with Christ. His hunger for truth and his willingness to question tradition became a quiet guide for me. He didn’t push, but his life spoke of something real, something deeper than religion.

Then, across the street, we met a young couple with children around the same age as ours. They had just found Jesus, and their lives radiated the joy of new faith. Her mum was the pastor of a small Pentecostal church—humble, tucked away, and full of heart. It became a sanctuary for us: a group of messed-up young parents, each carrying our own baggage, each trying to figure out what it meant to walk with Jesus in newness of life.

We didn’t come with polished testimonies or perfect theology. We came with broken hearts, open hands, and a longing for something more. And somehow, in that little church, surrounded by people who were just as messy as we were, we began to taste grace.

That little Pentecostal church gave us an incredible foundation. It was raw, real, and full of people who were just trying to figure it out—like us. We learned to pray, to worship, to open our Bibles and actually expect to hear from God. It was beautiful.

But we also picked up some bad habits along the way.

I remember someone teaching me about “keeping a short account with God.” The idea was to confess every sin immediately, to stay constantly clean before Him. On the surface, it sounded wise. But for someone like me—someone desperate not to fall back into the pit I’d just been rescued from—it became a heavy yoke. I was so eager to please God, so afraid of disappointing Him, that I clung to every rule, every teaching, every whispered warning. I didn’t realize it then, but my striving to stay clean was slowly becoming another form of bondage. The people in that little church walked with us for several years.

They were more than a congregation—they were family. But slowly, one by one, the young families began to move on. Life shifted, seasons changed, and the community we had grown in began to scatter.

My husband started to feel an itch for something more—something different. So we decided to move to another local church. This new church was vibrant and full of life. It was “rocking,” as we used to say. So many young families, dynamic worship, engaging programs—it was amazing in so many ways.

But we didn’t leave our little church without a word of caution.

Before we stepped out, we received a prophetic warning—one that echoed in our hearts: “Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.” — Colossians 2:8

It was a reminder to stay anchored in Christ, not in the excitement or the systems of man.

At the time, we didn’t fully understand what it meant. But it would come to mean more than we ever imagined.

Looking back now, 29 years later, I can see it so clearly: it’s as if we’ve lived through the very churches Jesus speaks about in the book of Revelation. Each season, each church community, reflected a different part of that message—some full of love and truth, others caught in compromise or striving, and still others clinging to a form of godliness but missing the heart.

That prophetic warning we received before leaving our little church—“beware the vain philosophies of man”—echoed louder as time went on. We didn’t know it then, but we were about to walk into a new chapter that would test our discernment, our hunger for truth, and our understanding of what it really means to follow Jesus.

Chapter 2 When Zeal Becomes a Yoke

The next church we moved into blew our minds. At first, it felt like an exciting move of God.

The energy was electric, the preaching bold, and the vision expansive. We had stepped into the apostolic movement, and the church was thriving—500 people strong, full of passion and purpose.

But over the course of 18 months, something shifted. The preaching became more confronting, more intense. People began leaving in droves. What had started as a vibrant community slowly unraveled.

The messages, though bold, felt soul-crushing. The atmosphere grew heavy. It was no longer a place of healing—it became a place of spiritual exhaustion.

At the same time, we were caught in a business deal with others from our previous church. What had seemed promising began to unravel faster than we could blink. We lost everything financially.

That was the first time.

It was a season of stripping—spiritually, emotionally, and materially. And yet, even in the devastation, God was still at work.

But don’t get me wrong—I don’t believe for a moment that God was the one who “gives and takes away” in the way that’s often misunderstood.

That’s not my Father’s heart.

He’s not the author of destruction.

He’s the Redeemer in the midst of it.

The truth is, we made some poor choices. We stepped into things without wisdom, without discernment, and we bore the consequences.

But even in that, God never turned His face away. He was there—grieving with us, waiting for us, ready to redeem what we had broken.

The loss I was experiencing during that time felt all consuming. I was emotionally, spiritually, and financially wrecked.

Everything around me seemed to be crumbling, and I couldn’t see a way forward.

In the midst of it all, a friend who had been walking closely with me during that season asked me a question—one that, at the time, I didn’t realize would become a turning point.

“You know we’re saved by grace, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

But then she looked at me gently and said, “

There’s just something a little off in your understanding.”

I didn’t know what she meant.

I didn’t even know how to respond.

But her words stayed with me.

They echoed in my heart long after the conversation ended. And slowly, I began to realize: I had strayed from the path.

Not in rebellion, but in striving. I had been trying so hard to please God, to stay clean, to do everything right… that I had missed the very heart of the gospel. And just as that realization began to stir, an unexpected door opened.

Chapter 3 The Gospel that Found Us

We were given the opportunity to take a product to the United States and launch a business.

Before we knew it, we were stepping into a new adventure—business in the USA.

It felt like a fresh start, a new chapter.

But God wasn’t finished with the work He had begun in my heart.

Our time in the U.S. was the best experience of my life. It wasn’t just about launching a business or starting fresh—it was about encountering God in a way I never had before.

In that season, He began to reveal His heart of love for me.

Not the God I had tried so hard to please, not the one I feared disappointing—but the real Jesus.

The One who walks with us, weeps with us, and delights in us.

Unbeknown to us, we were walking out of religion.

We were unlearning a decade’s worth of striving, performance, and pressure.

And we were stepping into something far more beautiful: a heart-to-heart relationship with the Lord. It was like scales falling from our eyes. We began to see Him—not as a distant judge, but as a loving Father.

Not as a taskmaster, but as a friend.

And in that place of freedom, faith began to breathe again.

We didn’t know it at the time, but we were being gently led out of mixture.

For years, we had lived under a gospel that was part law, part grace—part Jesus, part self-effort.

It wasn’t intentional.

No one stood up and said, “You must earn your righteousness.” But the message between the lines was clear: Do more. Be better. Stay clean. Keep short accounts. Don’t mess it up.

It was a gospel that started with grace but ended in performance.

And it wore us out.

In the U.S., something began to shift. It wasn’t just the change of scenery or the fresh start—it was the presence of God, meeting us in our brokenness, not with condemnation, but with kindness.

We began to hear teachings that didn’t just challenge our theology—they healed our hearts. We heard about the finished work of the cross—not as a slogan, but as a reality.

We heard that Jesus didn’t just die for our sins—He died as us.

That we were co-crucified with Him, buried with Him, raised with Him, and now seated with Him in heavenly places.

That we weren’t just forgiven—we were made new.

And slowly, the veil began to lift.

We started to see that the gospel isn’t about behavior modification—it’s about heart transformation.

It’s not about managing sin—it’s about living from union with Christ.

It’s not about keeping ourselves clean—it’s about realizing we’ve already been made clean by His blood.

This was the New Covenant.

And it was nothing like the mixture we had known.

We would have said, we knew this, and we did...with our heads and I would now call this knowledge, but God wanted us to know it with our hearts, I would now call this revelation knowledge.

In the Greek

ἐπίγνωσις (epígnōsis)

Root: From epi- (upon, full) + gnōsis (knowledge)
Meaning: Not just intellectual knowledge, but deep, experiential, and relational knowledge—often used in the New Testament to describe intimate, Spirit-revealed understanding of God.

This comes through experiencing Him in and through the Trials.

Chapter 4 The Gardener’s Revelation

Over the years, we had become deeply rooted in the inner healing movement.

And for a time, it felt like the answer. I was desperate to be free—desperate to know truth in every part of my being.

I wanted to be whole, healed, and clean before God.

But desperation, if not anchored in discernment, can lead you into the weeds.

The teachings were well-meaning. I was told to search out every hidden vow, every judgment I had made against my parents, every generational curse from my forefathers.

If I could just find them all, repent of them, renounce them, and ask forgiveness—then I would finally be free. Free like I was when I first met Jesus.

And I did experience freedom… but only for a short time.

It became a cycle. A spiritual scavenger hunt. I was constantly looking inward, trying to uncover what was still broken, what was still wrong with me. I believed that if I could just dig deep enough, I’d find the root—and pull it out once and for all.

But one morning, everything changed.

I was riding my exercise bike, reflecting on the new truths that had begun to revive my heart again.

Our new home in California overlooked a valley, and across that valley were two garden beds—side by side.

One was a barren wasteland, dry and lifeless.

The other was lush, full of thriving plants and vibrant color.

As I looked at them, the Holy Spirit gently asked me, “What do you think the difference is between these two gardens?”

I thought for a moment and replied, “It must be how they’re cared for.”

You see, through the Inner Healing movement, I felt like I was responsible to find everything that was wrong with me so I could be free, I wanted to be free, so I was going to find EVERYTHING!!!

AND I thought, I needed to have a special person pray for me,

say a special prayer,

in a special way....

then I would be FREE!

Then came the next question: “Who do you think is responsible for taking care of the weeds in the garden?”

And in that moment, something shifted.

I realized—it’s the gardener’s job to tend the garden.

Not mine.

I had been living as though it was my responsibility to find every weed, every flaw, every broken place.

But the Holy Spirit was showing me that freedom doesn’t come from relentless self-examination, nor praying the special prayers, with the special people, in the special way.

It comes from trusting the Gardener.

I was stuck in a cycle of trying to fix myself.

But He was inviting me into rest.

Chapter 5 Soaring Through the Storm

The season in the U.S. was incredible.

It lasted seven years—seven years of growth, prosperity, and revelation.

We were thriving in every way. Spiritually, emotionally, financially—it felt like we had stepped into the fullness of God’s promises.

Except when we weren’t.

Slowly, things began to shift.

Not because our understanding of grace had changed, but because life did.

I suppose I thought...with this new revelation, what could possibly go wrong?

We’ve got it all! But I was about to learn that even in grace, life can still unravel.

We found ourselves in another season of loss. We lost everything—again.

The business dried up.

The finances collapsed.

And once again, we were faced with the painful reality of starting over.

We made the decision to return to Australia.

We sold the house, gave away or sold most of our belongings, and scraped together just enough to get home. At least we could go on social security until we found our footing again.

It felt like failure. Like we had gone full circle.

But God was already working it all together for good.

Shortly after we returned, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. And suddenly, I understood why we needed to be home. I got to spend precious time with him—time I wouldn’t have had if we’d stayed in the U.S. Time to sit with him, talk with him, love him. Time to say goodbye.

It was a sacred gift in the midst of sorrow.

Coming back to Australia wasn’t easy. We had changed. Our Country had changed. We had lived in what seemed like a similar culture, but it wasn’t the same. We felt like we were returning to a Foreign Country. And the transition was hard—for all of us.

We were rebuilding again.

Financially, emotionally, spiritually.

But this time, something was different.

We weren’t striving to get back what we lost.

We were learning to walk with the Gardener.

To trust Him—not just in the abundance, but in the pruning.

Chapter 6 Grace for the Crippled Soul

Returning to work after seven years as a stay-at-home mum was daunting.

I felt like I was starting from scratch—relearning everything, trying to find my footing in a world that had moved on without me. And even in the midst of loss, I was soaring in my heart. God had taught me to soar in the storm. I never imagined I could be in that place—suffering loss, yet not blaming God, not blaming myself, not blaming my husband or children or any other external person. Just walking through it with love and grace in my heart.

How truly liberated I had become.

In 2017, I took a job that seemed challenging at first—but I had no idea what I was walking into.

The company had cycled through nine staff in less than 18 months before me. I didn’t know that.

I also didn’t know that one of the owners was on trial for two cold case murders—crimes committed 30 years earlier. He was convicted of one of them and sent to prison while I was still working there.

The trauma of that season was overwhelming. It took me out completely.

I didn’t know how I would ever work again.

I felt crippled—emotionally, spiritually, professionally.

One day, I sat quietly with the Lord, pouring out my heart.

I told Him how broken I felt, how incapable I was of getting back up.

And He reminded me of the crippled man by the Pool of Bethesda.

“But Lord,” I cried, “I don’t have a man!”

I didn’t have someone to help me up.

I couldn’t walk.

I couldn’t do it.

I was down and out, and I believed I would never recover.

But then He whispered gently to my heart:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

And once again, I saw the depths of His grace.

I rose up—baby step after baby step.

Over the next few years, He proved His sufficiency to me again and again.

Slowly, He led me into new projects. He graciously opened the door to online work, building me up, restoring my confidence, teaching me—again and again—to rest in Him.

I think we’ll keep learning this until we meet Him face to face.

His grace truly is sufficient for every need.

Sometimes we just need to see it. To let Him lead us.

And often, it doesn’t look the way we expected. But He is faithful.

He works all things together for good—even the ugly, devastating things that feel like they’ll take us out forever.

That feeling of complete and utter brokenness—it doesn’t go away.

And I’ve come to understand, it’s not meant to.

It’s the kind of brokenness the Apostle Paul spoke of when he shared about his weakness.

It’s the good kind.

The kind that empties you of self and teaches you, step by step, that you are not capable.

That in your weakness, He is your strength.

It’s the kind that keeps your eyes fixed on Jesus, because you know—the moment you look away, down you go.

Chapter 7 Walking In His Completion

In this more current season, the Lord gave me a dream that represents revelation of how we can walk in the work He completed.

It was simple, but profound.

I was driving up a large hill. The road was narrow—so narrow there were no sides. As I climbed higher, an optical illusion began to affect my vision. The sheer drop on either side made it harder to focus. Then the road started to form “woopsies”—those little bumps you see on a motocross track, the kind that make it hard to keep steady.

Navigating became harder and harder. But I kept going.

And then, when I reached the top—there was an explosion of joy. A joy so intense, so breathtaking, it shocked me. It took my breath away.

That dream was a picture of the walk of faith. The narrow road.

The illusions.

The instability.

The constant need to be led by the Spirit.

And the reward—unspeakable joy—waiting at the top for those who endure, who trust, who lean not on their own understanding.

This is the life of grace.

Not ease, but dependence.

Not certainty, but trust.

Not strength, but surrender.

And in that surrender, we find joy.

The dream wasn’t just a picture—it was a revelation.

Driving up that narrow hill with no sides was a perfect metaphor for walking by the Spirit.

There’s no room for leaning on your own understanding.

No guardrails of self-sufficiency.

Just trust.

Just dependence.

Just eyes fixed on Jesus.

As you ascend, the optical illusions begin to distort your vision. Isn’t that just like life? The higher you go, the more vulnerable you feel. The more you grow, the more the enemy tries to confuse your sight.

And then came the woopsies—those unpredictable bumps that make the journey even harder to navigate. They’re the trials, the setbacks, the moments of instability that test faith.

But you kept going.

And when you reach the top—there is an explosion of joy.

Not just relief.

Not just accomplishment.

But joy.

The kind that takes your breath away.

The kind that only comes from walking the narrow road, eyes fixed on the Lord, through weakness, through uncertainty, through surrender.

This is the way of grace.

It’s not the absence of hardship—it’s the presence of Jesus in the midst of it.

It’s learning, like Paul, to boast in weakness.

To say, “I can’t do this, Lord. But You can.”

It’s the daily choice to walk by the Spirit, not by sight.

To trust the Gardener to tend the weeds.

To let go of striving and lean into rest.

And the joy? It’s not just at the end.

It’s in every step of trust.

Every moment of surrender.

Every time you choose to keep your eyes on Him, despite what’s being thrown at you.

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