Four Generations of Fire: A Testimony of Pain, Redemption, and Calling

Four Generations of Fire: A Testimony of Pain, Redemption, and Calling

I love to smile—but behind that smile is a price I paid and a hurt I’ve learned to hide.

I grew up in a spotless home. My mother was a clean woman, influenced by her own mother’s standards. If a roach ran under the fridge, she’d move the whole thing just to get it. Cleanliness wasn’t just a habit—it was a legacy. But my father, an alcoholic, brought chaos into that order. His flesh-eating spirit was Seagram’s gin. Under its influence, he’d fuss about everything wrong in the house. Eventually, my mother had enough. She called her mother to come get her, and that meant we were headed to Grandma Eva’s house in Sarepta, Louisiana—a place I never wanted to be.

Sarepta was 30 miles from Minden, and I was only 10 years old when I decided to walk all the way back. I took my grandmother’s .22 pistol with me—not because I wanted to hurt anyone, but because I already knew how cruel the world could be. I was living out Matthew 10:16:

“Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.”

Eventually, my mother realized I was gone. She borrowed her mother’s car and found me in Cotton Valley. She took me back to Grandma Eva’s, but soon my father came to pick me up and take me back to Minden. I was too young to be alone, At the house bymyself so I ended up at Grandma Johnnie Belle’s house—his mother’s house.

They say you know you’ve raised your son right by how your grandchildren turn out. Let’s just say I was terrible. Just like my father used his mother, so did I. Sweet as Grandma Johnnie Belle was, I became selfish—wanting what I wanted, doing what I wanted. Her house was a step down from the clean environment I was used to. She had roaches, and my father, her son, should’ve understood how poverty followed him because he neglected her. He lived better than she did, and that distinction mattered.

Still, Grandma could cook the best fried chicken. Her Christian walk lacked fasting, but she was faithful in prayer. I believe God had a better plan for me than He did for my father—who never understood his calling. The devil’s attack on me was rooted in Deuteronomy 5:9:

“I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me.”

I’m the fourth generation. Webb Gamble was my great-grandfather. Harry Gamble, my grandfather, smoked cigarettes and ran a club. My father followed suit—smoking, drinking, and eventually giving up on life. The flesh-eating spirit accomplished its mission. He died with cirrhosis of the liver. In his latter days, he started going to church. He was on probation, just like I was. His charge was writing hot checks—he no longer had his mother to depend on.

I was on probation for simple possession. My sentence: five years hard labor, five years suspended, five years probation, and 40 hours of community service. I did three months in jail. A lady cop came and asked me to turn state’s evidence on my partner in crime. I said yes—he was trying to put it all on me. Never mind the fact that I was committing adultery with his wife. She initiated it, and I can’t lie—I enjoyed it. It went on until the day the police raided the store and I went to jail.

When I was young, I was sent to the Louisiana Training Institution for Boys. My father didn’t know what to do with my behavior. But my first real encounter with God came after heartbreak. The pain was so deep, the enemy launched his most vile attack. Yet somehow, God let me come into His presence because I had a contrite heart.

A contrite heart is filled with sincere remorse, deep humility, and a profound sense of guilt for wrongdoing. It leads to a desire to atone and seek God’s mercy. It means surrendering your will to God, abandoning self-justification, and embracing divine correction. That’s the kind of worship God favors.

I’m single now. I’ve had many failed relationships. Never been married. Never had children. Never received the respect or honor from the right woman. But I know this: the generational curse stops with me. Webb Gamble was the first generation. Harry Gamble the second. My father the third. And I am the fourth.

But I am also the generation of redemption.