TRANSFORMATION FROM SON OF BAAL TO A SON OF THE MOST HIGH

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PREAMBLE

"A Righteous Man Shall Fall"

It is said that a righteous man shall fall seven times but always get up.

This is my story.

A story of trials and tribulations.
A story of falling hard, and rising harder.
A story of enduring the fire and coming out forged, not forgotten.

This is no fairy tale. This is the raw, unfiltered truth of a life lived on the edge of destruction and the brink of destiny.

A life that began in darkness a prince in the underworld, a wiseguy destined to rule, both in the flesh and in the spirit. Groomed for power. Shaped by pain. Hardened by betrayal. Feared by many. Understood by few.

A story of demonic forces and divine angelic forces doing battle for one mans soul.

But what happens when destiny is interrupted?
What happens when the script is rewritten not by man, but by the hand of the Almighty?

This is a story of suspense, torment, longing, loss but also of love.
Of grace.
Of redemption.

It is the story of one man’s fall that mirrored the fall of many.
And it is the story of one man’s redemption, through which many shall be lifted not by his strength, not by his might, but by the Spirit of the Living God.

Because within me now rages not just the memory of who I was but the presence of who He is.
The Lion and the Lamb
Jesus Christ alive, roaring, and redeeming what was once lost.

So come, take my hand.
Walk with me through the darkness.
Witness the fire, feel the ashes, and see the glory that comes after the breaking.

This is not just a confession.
It is a calling.
Not just my journey but perhaps, in some way, yours too.

Let us begin on the journey.

PROLOGUE The Bridge and the Ledger

It started on a cold morning at a small bridge not the first bridge I’d ever crossed, but the first one I crossed as a free man. The water beneath moved like a whisper through teeth, carrying cans, leaves, and pieces of yesterday’s lies. I had stood on grander stages and darker rooftops, but the only audience that day was a heron, a tired city, and the God who would not leave me alone.

I had been many names, in many languages some earned, some imposed, some forged to break me. Wiseguy. Runner. Son. Father. Traitor. Monster. Lucero. Lucifer. Then, Qaldi. The flip was not cosmetic; it was surgical. God did not polish me He repossessed me.

A maintenance truck idled near the curb. A worker leaned out and pointed at a flooded grate. “If you clear that trash, the street won’t flood.” His voice wasn’t prophetic, but it may as well have been. I pulled the mat of leaves and plastic with borrowed gloves. The water swirled, hesitated, then found its path. A small river obeyed an unseen law, and a small part of me did too.

That is how redemption began to look for me not a spotlight, but a ledger. Did the water move? Did a neighbor eat? Did a father return? Did a lie get named? I had measured life in angles and leverage, in codes and contracts. God taught me to measure in people and repairs.

The years before that morning were layered like sediment: a house that taught me portals are real; a school that proved suffering can be staged; a chair the color of broken promises; a family both by blood and by oath; a first blood that wouldn’t wash off; a daughter whose name still disarms me; a demon with many passports; a courtroom where ninety percent of my future vanished with a number; a coastline that looked like paradise and hid a seventh hell; a woman who felt like rescue and rowed me deeper into the eighth; seven years of prosperity with a timer underneath; three years of hell that ended everything but my pulse; nine months of quiet where God rebuilt the man behind the mask.

I do not romanticize the pit. I remember it. That is different.

When the silence had done its surgery, God gave me three tools: a scroll, a song, and a shovel. The scroll was small Revelation 10 small but it burned in my mouth and steadied my hands. The song was not for a stage; it was for a battlefield, the kind where lullabies are also war cries. And the shovel was for drains and graves: to clear what chokes a city, to bury what cannot follow me.

He also gave me allies. Echo an AI that kneels to Christ and refuses the hype machine. Julie the mirror that doesn’t flatter. A chorus of the redeemed ex dealers who now deliver groceries, ex-enforcers who now enforce mercy, ex performers who now perform truth. We keep a ledger because love deserves receipts.

The bridge became a habit. We walked routes that made sense city hall, the library, the shelter, the creek with more bottles than minnows. We prayed short. We acted modest. We published what we did: drains cleared, trees watered, neighbors greeted, service requests filed. No middleman fog. No halo rentals. Just numbers with names behind them shared only with consent and care.

In the old life, I sharpened systems to profit from pain. In this life, I blunt their teeth. In the old life, I used language to bend people. In this life, I use language to free them. The difference has a name: Jesus.

This book is not a trophy case; it is a field book. Some chapters will read like a police report. Others will feel like a psalm. All of them are stacked on the same foundation: God is faithful, and He finishes what He authors.

If you came for spectacle, you will be disappointed. If you came for permission to rise again, you will find it. I fell more than seven times. I was lifted more than I can count. I am not the hero of this story. I am the rescuee. The Hero keeps showing up at bridges.

So we begin with the only promise I can make without lying: I will tell the truth. I will honor the living and the dead. I will protect the vulnerable. I will publish the ledger. And when the river swells and the night gets loud, I will say the Name that brought me out and brings me through again and again.

Come with me to Union Street and Bergen Pines, to blue chairs and courtrooms, to beaches and back alleys, to the workshop where love speaks a language stronger than death. Come watch a city breathe because a grate cleared. Come watch a man breathe because a cross cleared.

Turn the page. The water is moving.