“Home Again, by Grace” By Rob Victor

I often think of life as a long, winding road—sometimes well-paved and sunlit, other times cracked and shrouded in fog. But every mile of it brought me closer to home—not just a place, but a spiritual home I had left behind for too long.

My earliest roots in faith were planted in an evangelical church in Storrs, Connecticut. I was around ten when we started attending Storrs Community Church. For five short but pivotal years, I experienced what I now recognize as my first awakening to God’s presence. That church was alive. The pews were filled with children, laughter, and vibrant worship. Pastor Dennis Ritcher, passionate and steady, stood like a lighthouse for many of us. It was my mother who urged us to go—“Our children need a foundation,” she told my father. And she was right.

Those years shaped me in ways I wouldn’t understand until decades later. I made a bookmark in Sunday school once, with a verse from Jeremiah, sealed in plastic. I still have it tucked inside my Living Bible. For a long time, I didn’t realize that those years were God planting a seed that would take root much later.

But when I turned 15, everything unraveled.

My father left our family after a series of infidelities. The emotional shock was immense. I was at that fragile age—old enough to notice, young enough not to know how to cope. He left the church with his actions, and soon, so did we. My mother remarried—a good man who had been our next-door neighbor—but the church wouldn’t perform the wedding. That rejection stung and added to the unraveling.

With no father at home and no church to lean on, I started drifting. I turned to marijuana, rebellion, and a reckless indifference. If no one was following the rules anymore, why should I? The compass had vanished, and so had my will to follow any map.

Those years turned into decades.

From ages 15 to 50, I lived what I now call the “wandering years.” I built a career—one that paid the bills and occupied my time—but my personal life suffered deeply. I was married and divorced twice. Both marriages lacked a spiritual center. I don’t blame anyone but myself, but in hindsight, it’s clear: without faith, without church, I made choices that led to isolation and disappointment. My life lacked direction, and eventually, that led to depression.

But God wasn’t done with me.

It started simply. I found my childhood Bible up in the attic one day. Alongside it was my father’s old parallel Bible, with four translations side by side. I didn’t know why I kept it after he died, but something in me knew I couldn’t throw it out. I opened those pages, desperate for something more. Around that time, my mother—now a widow after my stepfather passed—sent me a copy of Jesus Calling by Sarah Young. And so began my slow journey back.

Little by little, I returned. A neighbor, cleaning out his uncle’s house, was about to toss a Catholic study Bible into the trash. He hesitated, and I saw him standing there, unsure. “You want this?” he asked. I took it. That Bible changed everything. I began to study, not just read. The Psalms spoke to me like letters from an old friend. The Epistles offered practical wisdom I desperately needed. Paul, James, Hebrews—they helped me begin to build again.

But I still hadn’t returned to church.

Something in me felt unworthy. Thirty-five years away is a long time. But I kept studying. Kept praying. And when I hit a wall in Connecticut—surrounded by a secular culture I couldn’t connect with—I prayed the simplest prayer: “God, send me somewhere I can help. Somewhere I can serve.”

The answer surprised me.

I found myself listening to a Christian radio station out of Monticello, Maine. Something about it tugged at me. And without much more than a quiet conviction, I packed my car on March 8 and drove to Houlton. I didn’t know what would happen. I stayed one night in a hotel. That Sunday, I drove by two churches—Houlton UMC was one of them. I noticed the sign: “Pastor Victor Han.” My name is Rob Victor. I smiled. “God, is this the place?” I asked.

I walked in. Nervous, unsure. But Susan welcomed me with a beaming smile. Pastor Lee handed me a mic and said, “Tell them what you just told me.” So I did. And Rue and Nell offered me a room. Just like that, I had a place to stay, a church to belong to, a community.

That was the beginning of the next chapter.

I no longer worry about where the road leads. I’ve let go of the steering wheel. That’s what faith is, I think—learning to let God drive. It's not easy. We’re taught to plan, to analyze, to worry. But I’ve found peace in letting go, trusting that God’s path is better than anything I could design.

These days, my prayers are simpler. I don’t pray for specific outcomes. I pray for wisdom, for guidance, for ears to hear the still, small voice of God. I pray to be useful. To serve others humbly. I don’t want to be remembered as someone great—I want to be remembered as someone kind. Someone who gave, who listened, who loved.

If I could speak to my younger self—the troubled teen, the ambitious worker, the wounded husband—I’d say this: show grace. Grace to yourself, grace to others. I’ve learned that giving people more slack, more patience than you think they deserve, transforms everything. I wish I had been more gracious in my 20s and 30s. I was smart, but not wise. Now I try to live by grace.

My stepfather, though not a religious man, was kind and steady. My bosses at Verizon taught me hard work. But the mentorship I needed most—the guidance on how to be a better husband, a better man—should have come from the church. I know that now.

At 59, I feel like I’m just getting started.

I don’t know what the next years will hold. But whatever time I have left, I want to use it to make amends for the years I drifted. I want to serve, worship, grow in faith. I want to be better today than I was yesterday—and better tomorrow than I am today.

And in ten years, if I’m still around, I hope I’m still walking this path. Still growing, still learning, still leaning on God. Because the road home, I’ve learned, is not straight. But it always leads back to grace.