“You gonna be a man or a baby?” I was a fourteen-year-old kid when that question came my way. My response had consequences that changed my life forever.
As the middle of five children, I didn’t adjust well to my parent’s divorce. After they split, Mom moved us to a different town in Pasco County, Florida. The only thing that made the transition bearable was that I didn’t have to make new friends.
My best friend, Bobby, had the newest Nintendo system, so I practically lived at his house. That’s where I was on Super Bowl weekend 1992. After school that Friday, I jumped on my bike and rode 14 miles to Bobby’s. I would never return home.
The weekend started innocently enough, but trouble came knocking on Sunday when Alvin, the oldest in our group, showed up and started talking about robbing a house. He was nineteen, and I thought hanging out with him was pretty cool.
We glanced nervously at one another. Was he serious? Someone finally asked, “What if someone’s home?”
“You little babies need to man up!” Alvin sneered. My heart dropped.
Two of the kids wanted no part in the plan. They jumped on their bikes and took off, ignoring Alvin’s taunts and insults. That left me and Bobby alone with Alvin. By this time, we had walked down the street toward the target house.
We stopped in front of it, and Alvin turned and glared at me. “Okay. What about you?”
I was 14 miles from home, it was dark, and I had only my bike. What else could I do? Seconds later, the three of us were standing on the front steps.
The house was dark, as if no one were home. Gripping a shotgun, Alvin kicked in the door, and we went inside. A man’s voice shouted, “Who’s there?!” Awakened from their sleep, the owner of the home and his elderly mother emerged to investigate the noise.
I hid under a table as total chaos broke loose. Alvin’s shotgun blasted, and from my hiding place, I witnessed the kind of evil most people only see in horror movies. The first chance I got, I fled out the front door and ran from the scene where two innocent people lay murdered in cold blood.
When the cops caught up with us early the next day, I felt like I’d been rescued. I sat handcuffed to a chair, waiting for my mom so detectives could question me. In my head, I could hear her voice. “Tim, stay away from that boy,” she’d said the day she met Alvin. “Something isn’t right with him.”
When she arrived, she was clearly wrestling with shock. “Just tell them the truth, son. Everything will be okay.”
I talked with the detectives for hours without an attorney, telling them what I remembered, from Alvin’s robbery plan up to the murders. When the questioning was over, I thought I would finally get to go home with Mom and forget this nightmare.
To our shock and bewilderment, I didn’t go home. In fact, the nightmare was just beginning. The detectives charged me under the Florida Felony Murder Rule. This rule held liable anyone present during a robbery gone wrong, regardless of their actions or nonactions. That meant I was just as responsible for the murders as my codefendants, even though I hadn’t held a weapon.
I was booked into the juvenile detention center on two counts of first-degree murder. My first night was terrifying. I was stripped down to my underwear and left alone in a cold cell, locked behind a heavy steel door with only a blanket, thin mattress, steel toilet, and a light that never turned off. I cried myself to sleep, only to wake in panic, haunted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the terrible things I had witnessed.
During the nine days that I was in the juvenile detention center, the father of a football buddy paid me a visit. He was a pastor, and he didn’t come to scold or lecture me. He offered to pray with me, and I’ll never forget the first whisper of peace that washed over me as he spoke. His visit was significant because it was the first time someone showed me Jesus, even though at the time I didn’t see it that way.
The court decided to try me as an adult, and I was transferred to the Pasco County Jail to await trial. My attorney painted a grim, realistic picture—I could spend the rest of my life in prison.
Time stood still, and confusion mounted. How had this happened? What could I have done to change the outcome, not just for myself but for those who lost their lives?
I was climbing the walls and would’ve done anything to get out of that place, so I attended a Bible study. There, I met an old, tattooed ex-biker who came to talk to us about Jesus. He seemed relatable as he talked about how he’d done drugs,
drank, and did horrible things to other people. I wondered why guys like him wasted their time going into jails to talk to people like me.
And that’s when he said, “But then I met Jesus, and He forgave me and set me free.”
When the study was over, the man handed me a Bible. “Jesus has the answers to your questions, son. Start with Matthew and read through the New Testament. That’s where you’ll find Him.”
I took the Bible, put it in my cell, and forgot all about it. But God didn’t forget about me.
A few months later, a disciplinary write-up landed me in solitary confinement for 45 days. Reality hit hard in that lonely cell. With no distractions or anyone to talk to, I couldn’t escape the despairing thought that I might spend the rest of my life in prison. I was 15, and my life was over, completely without purpose.
Meanwhile, there was that Bible, sitting in my bin—it was all I had with me. Desperate, I finally did what the old guy said: I opened to the book of Matthew and just started reading. Jesus became so real to me as the stories of His life carried me out of my cell and circumstances. It was as if I were witnessing Him perform miracles and heal all those people, right there in front of me.
As I read through each gospel account of Jesus’s life, I would get to the crucifixion and wonder why everyone was always trying to kill Him.
When I got to John’s account of Jesus’s death on the cross, something shifted inside me. I’m the one who deserves punishment! For the first time, I realized that Jesus had come and willingly laid down His life for me, even though I had nothing to offer in return. He had overcome death and the grave so I could be forgiven and have eternal life. Suddenly, Jesus’s sacrifice was personal: He had died for me!
On September 12, 1993, while still in solitary confinement, I believed in Jesus Christ for salvation and accepted Him as my Lord. There was no earth-shaking experience, no fancy prayer, no response to an altar call. I simply realized and accepted that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, had given His life for mine (John 3:16). I had no idea what following Christ would look like, but I was committed.
One year later, at 16, I received two life sentences with no chance of parole for 25 years. I was scared to death the day I boarded a bus full of grown men and headed to an adult facility in the Florida Department of Corrections.
I had much to learn, both about prison life and God when I arrived, and the Lord sent Christian men to disciple me. They were like brothers and helped me steer clear of trouble. Through them, I witnessed what walking with the Lord looks like. I was baptized and developed spiritual disciplines like prayer and spending time in God’s Word.
Reading the Bible sowed many seeds of hope in my heart. The story of Joseph (Genesis 39–50) particularly impacted me. Joseph hadn’t asked for any of the circumstances that had altered his life, not even the accusations that landed him in prison for something he didn’t do.
I was particularly impressed with how, despite all the injustices he suffered, Joseph’s obedience and trust in the Lord never wavered. He waited patiently for the Lord’s deliverance, and God gave him favor in whatever he did.
I wasn’t innocent like Joseph, and I wasn’t always faithful like him either. I had tumbled into a pit because of my bad decision to go to that house that night. I was present when two innocent people lost their lives, and I was in prison because I deserved punishment. But still, Joseph’s story encouraged me. God was with Joseph through every hardship, and the Bible promised God would be with me too.
Understanding God’s level of mercy and love for me (Romans 5:8) changed how I did my time. I even thanked Him for my incarceration—it’s where I learned about my need for a savior. “It was good for me to be afflicted,” Psalm 119:71 says, “so that I might learn [God’s] decrees” (NIV).
I prayed for God to teach me to trust Him and be faithful like Joseph. Lord, I don’t want to be here forever, but as I wait, please use every bit of this time for Your glory. That prayer was a game-changer. Prison walls didn’t have to prevent me from experiencing the true freedom Jesus provides (2 Corinthians 3:17), nor did they disqualify me from being used by Him.
My first ministry assignment came after my story aired on national television. Letters of encouragement poured in, and God showed me an opportunity to help people. “Lord,” I said, “as long as the stamps keep coming, I’ll keep writing.”
I responded to every letter with a pen in hand and the hope of Jesus in my heart. Remember how Jesus multiplied loaves and fish to feed the multitudes in Matthew 14:15–21? Well, He did the same thing with the stamps. I never ran out.
Ten years into my sentence, my mom passed away unexpectedly. Losing her broke my heart. Satan took the opportunity to stir up old feelings of guilt and regret. “She’d still be alive if you hadn’t gotten into trouble,” he whispered. I was overwhelmed with grief.
The hardest part was not knowing if my mom was saved and then realizing she would never get to see what Jesus was doing in my life. I was allowed to attend her funeral—something almost unheard of in the prison system. God’s undeniable supernatural favor did the impossible on that one.
I cried out, “Please, Lord. Let my dad see me outside these gates with the freedom You have given me.” His only response was to strengthen me as I pressed on through my grief (2 Corinthians 12:8–10).
Seven years later, I was walking from the chapel to my dorm when God gave me a glimpse of His plan for my life. I was staring at the razor wire and fences around the compound when the Lord’s still, small voice told me, “Tell these fences to come down.”
I obeyed and commanded the fences to come down in Jesus’s name. I thought I would see the fences collapse. Instead, in my mind’s eye, I became like a giant. I could see myself stepping back and forth over those fences. Somehow, I knew in my spirit that God wasn’t going to let me die in prison. I wrote the date and vision in my Bible so I could reflect on it anytime I struggled to wait well.
In 2016, right before my 25-year mark, I was interviewed for my upcoming parole hearing. The investigator went through his scoring system and told me he wouldn’t recommend me for parole until 2027.
I would still have my hearing, but I wasn’t expecting much more than that. I thanked him for his time and started talking to God. “Father, please!” I prayed. “You know I can wait ten more years, but I don’t think my family can.”
I couldn’t attend the hearing, but during a call to my dad, a feeling rose inside of me that I couldn’t shake. “Dad, please! I don’t know why, but you’ve got to be there,” I told him. He thought I’d lost it.
“Why would I go all the way there just to be disappointed,” he responded. I didn’t know how to answer him, but he finally agreed to go.
Dad and everyone else in attendance witnessed a miracle that day. The room was stunned when Bernie McCabe got up to speak. It was the first time in the parole board’s history that a sitting district attorney spoke on behalf of an inmate. He acknowledged that the prosecution should have handled the case differently from the beginning and asked for my parole to be granted. He closed with these words, “He’s waited long enough.”
Mr. McCabe had examined my case because of a review Judge John Blue had written. Judge Blue had actually denied one of my appeals but had been troubled because he had to rule according to the law. He wrote a review before retiring which ultimately convinced Bernie McCabe to look into my case. God used Judge Blue’s review to set this history-making parole hearing in motion. By unanimous decision, I was granted parole and released from prison within six months.
On February 23, 2017, I walked out of those prison gates a free and redeemed man of God. The Lord had set me free, though, long before those gates opened (John 8:32, 36). He had made me alive even before I had been condemned, and He had been preparing me for my new assignment on the outside for all those years. Prison time was just one big preparation season.
To this day, I praise God for hearing the cries of a grieving boy who had lost his mother. With my release, He gave me the gift of almost seven years with my dad. I am grateful to God for every second I had with him. When Dad passed away in 2023, I not only attended his funeral but preached a message. And this time, praise God, I wasn’t wearing leg irons and a chain around my waist like I had to at my mom’s funeral.
Living free on the outside of the razor wire has had its challenges, but God has been with me every step of the way, just as He was when I was in prison. He’s helped me experience many milestones, like learning to drive, earning a paycheck, paying bills, completing parole, and marrying my beautiful wife, Ericka.
The Lord has also led me back to prison to share my testimony, including the one where I’d resided. There, I shared before hundreds of men how I witnessed God’s goodness on that same compound years before. I pray that each man will come to know God’s goodness for themselves.
My testimony is like the one penned by David in Psalm 40:1–3: “I waited patiently for the Lord to help me, and he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord.”
A day doesn’t go by that I don’t reflect on my years in prison and pray for the brothers I left behind. I pray for men and women everywhere who are bound, whether in prison or by circumstance. I long to deliver the Good News of Jesus to them, for I know that the power of the gospel can free anyone, regardless of where they are in life.
I used to wonder why people would give up their free time to go to prison and talk about Jesus. Now I know why, because the same love for Jesus and His Great Commission that commanded them compels me to walk back through those gates.
I have a burden to share the gospel—the Good News that Jesus saves and frees—with as many captives as I can in the time I have left. I can’t imagine doing anything else, for the gospel of Jesus Christ enabled me, a once thoroughly lost boy, to find his place as a son of the Living God.
Jesus strengthened and comforted me, and He transformed my life into one of purpose even while I was behind bars. He will do the same for anyone who comes to Him.
Timothy and Ericka Kane team up to bring the hope of Jesus and worship alongside their brothers and sisters behind prison walls. Tim is a business owner and serves with Generational Change, an outreach of Empowered to Change. In his role as chaplain, he helps give a voice to and restore the lives of others through various transitional programs. For more information, visit empoweredtochangeint.org.
