SpiriseBible
The Daughter Who Came Home
Jessica Martinez's Journey from Pastor's Kid to Prodigal to Pastor
Jessica Martinez
Former Runaway, Now Youth Pastor & Author
"I spent 10 years running from God, only to discover He was running after me the whole time."
I memorized Bible verses before multiplication tables. Won every Sunday School contest. Sang solos in church. Outside, I was the poster child for Christianity. Inside, I was suffocating.
Age 7
"Jessica, come pray for Sister Garcia." I dutifully placed my tiny hands on another sick church member, praying words I didn't feel, performing miracles I didn't believe in. The congregation praised my "anointing." I felt like a fraud in pigtails.
Age 14
Youth group president. Purity ring gleaming. Leading devotionals while hiding self-harm scars under long sleeves. "Pastor Martinez, your daughter is such a blessing!" If only they knew I was planning my escape.
"I lived two lives—the church Jessica who quoted Scripture and the real Jessica who questioned everything. Did God really love me, or just my performance? Was I saved because I believed, or because I was too scared to doubt?"
The day after high school graduation, I left. Not just home—I left God, church, everything. Full scholarship to NYU. My parents thought I was pursuing journalism. I was pursuing freedom.
My Prodigal Path
First party, first drink, first time not praying before bed. The guilt was overwhelming, but the freedom was intoxicating.
Declared God dead in my philosophy class. Replaced Bible studies with Nietzsche. Mocked Christians on campus. Became everything I once preached against.
Started a blog: "Recovering from Religion." Gained 50K followers. Parents' church prayed for me publicly. I laughed privately.
Marketing director at tech startup. Six-figure salary. Manhattan apartment. Weekend cocaine. Revolving relationships. Empty soul.
Rock Bottom Has a Zip Code
Age 27. Woke up in a hospital after overdosing at a company party. My "friends" had left me in the bathroom. The nurse said I almost died. I wished I had.
"I had everything I thought I wanted—success, freedom, no religious constraints. So why was I more miserable than ever? Why did the freedom I chased become the prison I couldn't escape?"
Fired for missing work. Evicted from my apartment. Friends disappeared with my money. Moved into a roach-infested studio in Brooklyn. The preacher's daughter was now truly lost.
Even in my rebellion, God kept showing up uninvited. Through strangers' kindness, vivid dreams, and my father's letters.
Dad's 100th Letter (yes, he numbered them):
"Mija, I'm not writing to preach. I'm writing to remind you that you have a home. Your room is exactly as you left it. Your mother still sets your place at dinner. We love you—not the perfect daughter you tried to be, but YOU. Come home when you're ready. We'll be waiting. - Dad"
I threw away every letter. But somehow, they kept finding their way back to me. In my emptiest moments, I'd reread them, crying over words I didn't deserve.
March 23, 2020 - The Breaking
COVID lockdown. Alone in my studio. No job, no friends, no distractions. Just me and the silence I'd been running from. At 3 AM, desperate and drunk, I found myself doing something I hadn't done in 10 years.
I prayed.
"God, if You're still there... I'm so tired of running."
It wasn't instant. God didn't strike me with lightning or speak audibly. But something shifted. The next morning, I called my dad for the first time in three years.
Me: "Dad? It's Jessica. I... I want to come home."
Dad (crying): "I'll book your flight right now. Your mother is already cooking."
Me: "Dad, I'm not the daughter you raised. I've done terrible things."
Dad: "You're my daughter. That's all that matters. Come home, mija."
"I expected judgment, lectures, 'I told you so.' Instead, I walked into a celebration. My entire family was there. Mom cried. Dad couldn't stop hugging me. My old youth group—now adults—welcomed me like I'd never left. I finally understood the prodigal son parable. It wasn't just a story. It was my story."
Months 1-3: Detox & Healing
Physical withdrawal from drugs. Spiritual withdrawal from cynicism. Therapy for trauma. Parents' unconditional love slowly melting my walls.
Months 4-6: Rediscovering Faith
Started reading the Bible again—this time for me, not performance. God's word felt new, like love letters I'd never really read. Baptized again at 28, this time by choice.
Year 2: Finding Purpose
Began sharing testimony at youth groups. Kids related to the "perfect Christian" struggle. God was redeeming my rebellion for His glory.
The Runaway Years
- Atheist blogger
- Drug addiction
- Toxic relationships
- Suicidal ideation
- Family estrangement
- Spiritual emptiness
The Restoration Years
- Youth pastor
- 5 years clean
- Healthy boundaries
- Counseling others
- Family reconciliation
- Spiritual overflow
The Ministry I Never Expected
Today, I pastor youth at my father's church—the same youth group I once led as a fake. But now it's real. I specialize in reaching the "perfect" kids who are dying inside, the rebels planning their escape, the prodigals who think they've gone too far.
"But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."
- Luke 15:20 (KJV)
This verse isn't just theology to me—it's my biography.
To the Prodigal Reading This
Maybe you're where I was—in a far country of your own making. Maybe you're the perfect Christian suffocating under expectations. Maybe you're the rebel who's gone too far. Let me tell you what I wish someone had told me:
- Your rebellion doesn't scare God
- Your questions don't threaten Him
- Your distance doesn't diminish His love
- Your return doesn't depend on your cleanup
- Your Father is watching the road, waiting
You haven't out-sinned God's grace. You haven't out-run His love. You haven't out-lasted His patience.
Ready to Come Home?
If my story stirred something in you, if you're tired of running, pray this simple prayer with me:
"Father, I'm far from home. I've made a mess of things. But I heard You're waiting for prodigals like me. I'm tired of running. I want to come home. Forgive me. Restore me. I receive Your love that I don't deserve. In Jesus' name, Amen."
Five years ago, I was an atheist blogger overdosing in Manhattan. Today, I'm watching teenagers find authentic faith in the same church I once escaped from. That's the scandalous grace of God—He doesn't just forgive prodigals; He gives them purpose.
My dad still has all 147 letters he wrote me during my prodigal years. We read them together sometimes, crying over God's faithfulness when I was faithless. He always says, "I never stopped believing you'd come home."
Neither did God. Neither does He for you.
Come home, prodigal. The Father is running toward you.
