I am 77 years old, and I can hardly remember what I was doing yesterday or the day before. However, as strange as it may sound, I have full clarity about my life beginning at the age of three, into four, and beyond.
My mother died when I was four years old. She was a beautiful 28-year-old woman who suffered from breast cancer for about one year before it took her life. My father, in his ignorance, abandoned her prior to her death. As I understand it, while she was dying, he already had another woman in his life—her name was Josephine.
The moment my mother died, my father demanded that my grandmother—my mother’s mother—release me into his custody so he could raise me.
My grandmother refused, fully aware of my father’s behavior. Eventually, with the help of my mother’s older brother, my father secured custody and immediately took me to live with him and Josephine.
I was born in Queens, New York, and raised in the Bronx and later in the state of New Jersey.
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The Physical Abuse Began Immediately
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Please remember, I was only four years old—a baby—when this began.
The abuse was daily: slapping, scratching, pinching, poking, pushing—brutal behavior toward a small child. As the Good Lord is my witness, I do not have a single memory of affection growing up. I was never kissed, never hugged, never patted on the back for a job well done, or even simply out of kindness. Rejection was constant—daily, without rest.
As a child, to avoid contact with Josephine, I would sometimes cower in a corner, face the wall, remain silent, and hope she would not hurt me that day. This was my life every single day until I left that house at the age of 18 to enter the United States military.
Eventually, my father moved us to Hialeah, Florida, where he built a home.
As soon as I was old enough to work, I was expected to handle all the labor around the house—mowing the lawn, edging the sidewalk, washing windows, pulling weeds, and more. Around age 15, I got a job delivering the Miami Herald newspaper. Every morning at approximately 3:00 a.m., seven days a week, I pedaled the bicycle I had bought myself to pick up my bundle of newspapers. At my peak, I had 159 customers.
I would fold the papers, load them into the metal basket on the front of my bike, and begin my route. I returned home around 6:00 a.m., slept for maybe one hour, and then left for school. My junior high was one block away, but for high school I hitchhiked to Hialeah High School.
At the end of each month, I collected payments from customers. After paying the newspaper company their portion, I earned approximately $100 in profit. I was required to hand all of it to Josephine. From my earnings, she would give me a small allowance for lunch at school.
Inside the house, I was not allowed to touch the refrigerator’s “good” section. That was reserved for her, her niece, and her nephew, who also lived with us. I was allowed to eat only from a separate area with older food. They did nothing but enjoy life inside that home.
During junior high, I began noticing girls. I had thick, solid black hair like my mother. Naturally, I wanted to look good. Josephine, who deeply disliked me, would demand the shortest haircuts possible. All week long, the abuse continued.
However—and this is important—Josephine dragged me to Catholic Mass every single Sunday morning. I deeply resented it. I became turned off to anything that represented religion or worship. I considered it foolish and a waste of time.
At 17, I met a girl at Hialeah High School who had a car. We liked each other and planned to go to a movie. When she arrived to pick me up, I walked toward the door, and Josephine grabbed me by the back of my shirt and told me I was not going anywhere. I turned around and told her to leave me alone and never touch me again. I was going on that date.
That night, when my father came home, I do not know what Josephine told him, but he entered my room, pulled me from a deep sleep—I still had to deliver newspapers at 3:00 a.m.—and slapped me to the floor. I will never forget it. He told me never to disrespect his wife again. I was 17 years old.
At 17, I secretly joined the United States Coast Guard. At 18, after graduating high school, I walked out the front door without telling anyone, went to Miami International Airport, and flew to New Jersey for boot camp. I rarely returned to that house, even when I had leave. I had zero relationship with Josephine and only a shallow one with my father. I did not forgive my father until I was in my 40s.
As I write this, I have no idea what happened to Josephine. I wish her well. I believe I have forgiven all she represented during those years.
In the military, I carried an attitude and a chip on my shoulder. At the slightest provocation, my fists would go up. Fighting meant nothing to me. The scars on my face, arms, and hands remain today. I had no belief in God, Jesus Christ, or anything representing the church. I was living full throttle—raising hell, using drugs, drinking heavily, and becoming a complete party animal.
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The Beginning of the Conversion
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I received an honorable discharge in February 1970 after four years of active duty and two years of reserve service. About a month later, I met my future wife, Kathy Vitkus. I was 22; she was 21.
She was kind, beautiful, and came from a loving family—mom, dad, four brothers, and a sister. She attended church. I would follow her anywhere, and so I followed her to church. Eventually, we began attending a non-denominational Christian church.
Her influence began to soften me. We spent time together—holding hands, going to the beach, walking through malls, and going to the movies. She asked me to fly to Wisconsin to meet her family. I agreed immediately.
When I walked into her childhood home, I was overwhelmed by the love and warmth. I had never experienced anything like it. The bonding between siblings, the love of mother and father—it was a world I had never known.
We married on July 15, 1972, in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
The influence continued. The change continued.
We had three beautiful daughters. From the moment I saw them, I fell in love. They have known only love, affection, and blessing from their father. I would choose death over duplicating what I experienced as a child.
We moved to mid-state Florida in 1994. We joined a local church and participated in Bible study. Years went by. I listened to my pastor. I listened to our Bible study teacher. Slowly, something began stirring in my heart.
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The Conversion
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Around age 72 or 73, it fully came to me: I had sinned. I had insulted and disrespected our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for years. I developed a truly contrite heart. I was genuinely repentant of my past.
I called a Christian friend and mentor and told him I needed to speak with another strong Christian man about my past. We agreed to meet. I arrived first. He walked in holding a Bible.
For nearly an hour, I spoke without stopping. I was sorry. I was grieving over my past sinfulness against Jesus Christ, who died on the cross—innocent—so that if we accept Him as Lord and Savior, we may have eternal life.
My friend opened the Bible and explained that when you are truly sorry, Jesus brings peace and tranquility to your heart. He forgives and forgets your past sins and welcomes you with open arms.
He directed me to Romans 10:8–15, especially verse 9:
“If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.”
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​As I look back on my 77 years, I find that even in my darkest childhood moments, I can see how God’s gentle hand guided my steps. I understand that feelings of rejection and anger can be deeply painful, but I’ve experienced a remarkable transformation into forgiveness, love, and peace through Jesus Christ. For that, I will always be grateful. I hope that by sharing my journey, I can offer hope and healing to others who may be struggling as well.